


Why Can't The Past Just Die?

by Man_Who_Sold_The_World



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Love Never Dies - Lloyd Webber, Phantom - Susan Kay, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi, more tags and ships to be added as phic progresses, shit what do i name this, this phic starts in devil take the hindmost and gets wilder from there dont @ me
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-11
Updated: 2020-07-06
Packaged: 2020-12-07 21:03:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 25,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20982338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Man_Who_Sold_The_World/pseuds/Man_Who_Sold_The_World
Summary: A drunken half-mistake and a sober continuence hurl a set of Dear Old Friends towards the only happy ending they can manage.tumblr: labyrinthphanlivingafacadeeditor: dying-suffering-french-stalkers





	1. Chapter 1

“Devil take the...” He’s halfway through his proposal and has long since closed the distance between the pair. Raoul’s head is foggy, to say the least. His limbs feel loose and heavy, somehow even more so when his old enemy reaches out to grip them with painful force. They pull each other closer and Raoul can feel the heat of him. It’s strange, somehow—it had never occurred to him that such a man might be warm. His mouth is running faster than his head, automatically defending both his wife and his pride. (There wasn't much difference anymore; his own pride had disappeared in Monte Carlo along with the rest of his fortune.) He thinks of his wife, of what she’d say of this...man. His voice (he can see why she’d had fallen to him, Faustian bargain as this appears to be; the man has the voice of devils and angels alike), his hands (he can still feel the man’s hands on his forearms, even after the few moments they’ve parted), his movements (ever fluid, even as his proposition continues).

Raoul’s lips are making promises his head hasn’t fully thought over and his head is currently thinking over making promises he shouldn’t keep. 

“...hindmo—” 

So he silences them both.

Raoul’s eyes are squeezed shut and his hands are grasping at the man’s shoulders as though he’d fall without them (and perhaps he would). 

  
  


Erik’s eyes are more open than they’ve been in years, and he swears it feels like a trap, but the vicomte tastes like bourbon and lost hope and is clinging to him like he— _ he! _ —has answers. He takes a step back, the viscount following, opening his eyes just enough to keep him from stumbling. He smiles, and Erik knows the vicomte is too drunk to recognize the full implications of this, knows he’ll wake up the next morning disgusted with himself. Still, the vicomte presses forward, just the touch of a thumb on his jaw, and Erik swallows. 

“Why?” Erik asks, waiting for the vicomte to reveal it to be some cruel joke.

“Had you never wondered what she had seen in me?” Raoul asks, eyes gleaming. “I had always wondered what she saw in you…” He glances down, releasing the other. “Oh God... _ Christine _ ,” he whispers, full of shame yet devoid of disgust.

“Perhaps another drink, Vicomte, and we can both forget this evening,” Erik offers, surprising both of them with his sincerity. 

“No.” Raoul shakes his head furiously, grabbing his suit jacket. “No. I’m entirely  _ tired _ of trying to forget.” He brushes past the man, almost to the door.

“Vicomte!” Erik calls, and Raoul pauses. “This...was not my intention tonight,” he explains, more desperately than he ever has.

“I know,” Raoul replies softly, before continuing out, refusing to look back. 

  
  
  


Christine is staring at him like he’s gone mad. Perhaps he has. 

And then Christine is forcing a glass of water into his hands, making him sit as he downs it. She is beside him, and he’s still wiping at his eyes from trying to explain it to her. 

“I cannot imagine asking for your forgiveness, but please believe me when I say that I did not do it to harm you.” He takes a breath. “I don’t know why I did it, I understand if—”

“I have something to tell you, something you’ve deserved to know since before our marriage,” she begins suddenly, taking his hand in hers and kissing the back of it. “Before we married, I set out to find him… it didn’t feel  _ right _ , just leaving him to the mob, in those  _ sewers _ .” She squeezes his hand lightly, and he sets his glass aside to give her his other. “I found him, and I loved him, and he left me before morning…” 

Raoul goes pale, his entirety sinking into the sofa. “Did you not-- not love, then?” he asks, and brings his hands closer to her. “Do you not love me now? Have you ever--”

“Of course I did!” she insists, eyes glittering with tears. “I loved you then and I still love you now, I just-- I also loved him, I think I may still, but it never lessened our bond… I know it must be difficult to believe me but--”

“I believe you, fully.” he assures, still with the other man’s taste on his tongue. “The past few days have been…”

“Illuminating?”

“To say the least,” Raoul finishes, leaning forward and kissing his wife’s forehead. “I’m sorry for tonight, let us at least rest a few hours together?”

“That isn’t all,”

“Christine?”

“Gustave—”

“—Is the boy I raised,  _ we  _ raised,” he assures, and Christine releases a breath she’s been holding for ten years. “And if we are to take him all about New York tomorrow, or--or, today? Then we will need to sleep.” He pulls her to him, resting his cheek in her hair.

  
  
  


Raoul wakes late, his wife fully-dressed on his bedside. 

“You looked so peaceful, I didn’t want to disturb you,” she explains, running her fingers through his messy hair. 

“Bad dreams?” he asks, sitting up.

“No,” she replies wistfully. “Meg called this morning, asked to show Gustave and I around the city.”

“That sounds splendid,” he begins, mind foggily recalling vague memories of their brief meeting before. “You should go,”

“You’ll be all right here alone?” Christine asks, and Raoul takes her hand in his, kissing the back of it. 

“Of course I will, don’t deprive yourself on my account,” he insists.

She smiles as she rises. “I love you. We’ll be back in a few hours; perhaps we can have dinner together. All of us.

  
  
  


“Vicomte...we should talk.”

Raoul recognizes that voice, knows exactly what this conversation is going to be, and yet still dares to reply to the man (who had taken it upon him to suddenly appear in his hotel room) with-- 

“How did you get in here?” he asks, and he does not move from his position on the sofa. He’s half-dressed, not having bothered to fully do so under the assumption that he would not be receiving guests until his wife returned with Miss Giry. 

“That does not matter, not now, we need to--”

“No, it  _ does _ matter; my wife and child sleep in this room, if the locks are faulty--”

Erik sighs, but explains, “I am an influential figure in this area. The doorman gave me a key.” 

“I did not hear you come in.” 

“I am quiet when necessary. Now, we need to talk about last ni—”

“—This  _ morning— _ ”

“Do you not take the revelation that you enjoy the pleasures of men seriously?” Erik demands, Raoul not bothering to even flinch from his position on the sofa.

“I was in the navy,  _ Monsieur _ . I haven’t taken the prospect seriously since I was a teenager.”

“...Have you been drinking?”

“Not a drop since we last met. Have  _ you _ ?” Raoul quips, and the other sneers. 

“You’re playing with me,” Erik mutters, unable to meet the vicomte’s eyes. 

“If I recall correctly, you were trying to play with  _ me _ this morning.” 

“That was different.”

“How so?” Raoul asks, relaxing against the back of the sofa as the man nears. 

“The bargain wasn’t meant to be for...it wasn’t like—”

“It was a game to ‘win’ Christine from a drunken man, as though she were poker chips.”

“It’s not like that—”

“For a man who screamed for the world to recognize his humanity, you seem incapable of doing the same for anyone else,” Raoul counters, and Erik looms over him. 

“You _are_ playing with me.” 

Raoul smiles. “A...different kind of game, if you recall.” Raoul tilts his head up to meet Erik’s eye.

“So it did not...matter to you, then?” Erik whispers.

“Define  _ matter _ ,” Raoul dares, glancing to the empty spot beside him before meeting the man’s eyes once more.

“You do not love m—”

“Don’t confuse curiosity with love.”

“So you do not care for me?” Erik asks desperately. 

“I didn’t say that.” Raoul rises, stepping towards the star map that cleverly disguised his bottle of bourbon. “You’re...a very strange man to care for,” he begins, pouring two glasses before turning back to find Erik frozen where he stood.. Raoul offers a glass as he continues, sipping at his own. “Though I suppose I should in some capacity; it seems like  _ everyone _ is in love with you nowadays…” He gestures to the sofa and hands him a glass.

“What are you talking about?” Erik demands softly, overwhelmed by the situation at hand. Raoul plops down beside him, leaning against the arm opposite of the former opera ghost.

“Christine, Meg...me, apparently.” Raoul sips, amused.

“What do you mean of Miss Giry?” 

“If my memory serves me correctly—which it’s possible that it might not, I do  _ terrible  _ things when I’m drunk,” he sips at his bourbon with a sly grin, and Erik quickly glances away, sipping at his own. “—then Miss Giry, in her infinite wisdom, advised me to leave with Christine before you could further entwine her in your web of seduction,  _ or something suchlike _ , my head was  _ pounding _ at the time.”

“But not when—”

“You are an increasingly sobering experience,” Raoul interrupts, watching the man nearly squirm as he awaits his desperate exposition. “It seemed, from  _ Miss Giry’s _ implications, that you had also managed to catch her.”

“In my...”

“Web of seduction? Yes...somehow. Personally I can’t see it, but—”

“So you did not care then?”

“Not finding you particularly  _ seductive _ does not mean I am devoid of compassion for you. You’re hardly seductive when you’re trying.”

“And when I’m not?” It escapes him without thought, and he glances to his still-full glass of bourbon in surprise. 

“Christine had always said you were a genius, before your supposed death. It is rare that I doubt the judgement of my wife.” Raoul watches the man shift from confusion to indignant anger. “I’ve always loved Christine’s voice. I could listen to her speak for hours…”

“Yes, she has a spectacular voice, one of angels--” Erik perks up at the opportunity to speak fondly of her, but is quickly interrupted.

“Perhaps I have a type…” Raoul watches as the man retreats.

“ _ You are playing with me. _ ”

“ _ A different game _ , and this time I haven’t a thing to lose,” Raoul brags, setting his glass down.

“You don’t know that,” Erik warns darkly, looking to Raoul’s nearly full glass and setting down his own. 

“You’re not going to kill me, and you aren’t going to hurt my wife or child...what else is there left to lose?” Raoul dares, and it feels like teasing the devil into a bargain. 

“How sure are you of all of that?” Erik asks, leaning towards the vicomte as he lowers his voice. 

“As sure as I can be. I do  _ terrible  _ things when I’m drunk.”

Erik glances once more to the vicomte’s glass before his attention is drawn by his voice. 

“My wife and I have been more open and honest with one another in the past day than we have in years.”

“You still love her, then?” Erik asks, eyes dancing to the vicomte's lips. 

“Of course. I never stopped, and I certainly wouldn’t now,” Raoul answers just as softly as he was asked.

“So you do not care for me then?” Erik breathes.  
“I contain multitudes, Mister Y.” Raoul sighs pleasantly. “What kind of name is _Mister Y. _anyway?” 

“I thought it was obvious; it’s like  _ mystery _ . Answer my question,” Erik demands, hand flexing at his side.

“That’s not how you spell  _ mystery _ ,” Raoul chuckles, eyes sparkling. 

“You’re mocking me,  _ why _ ?” 

“_Because_ _you haven’t killed me yet_.” 

They’re both aware of their closeness, have been since they started inching nearer and nearer to one another. Raoul rests against the arm of the sofa, as relaxed as though he weren’t sitting next to a murderer. Erik stares at him with an intensity to rival the sun and flexes his clenched hands. Raoul meets his eye, awaiting a response that he knows will be  _ interesting _ , in the least. 

The one he gets shouldn’t be unexpected, but it is. 

Erik’s hand is at Raoul’s throat and Raoul is gasping for breath despite the other having yet to squeeze. They’re deadly close, and Raoul’s skin nearly  _ burns  _ him. His pulse shouldn’t surprise him, but it does. It feels strange to be so  _ close  _ to the living, so close to the living when he hasn’t given this man  _ anything _ . He gave Christine his music, his  _ heart and soul _ , and begged her to love him. He’s given this man nothing but strife and petty dares  _ and yet _ he remains still under his touch, pulse quickening, but expression ever unchanging. He cannot imagine the man pitying him, but this cannot be  _ desire _ . Desire is a  _ dirty,  _ ** _bought_ ** kind of thing when in the open. It is the worst of humanity’s greed, a surface-level want that anyone can feel, Persian nobles and wealth-hoarding New Yorkers alike. He had to sacrifice the entirety of his self for Christine’s, and even then, he was left him too ashamed to bask in it.  The Vicomte’s  _ Raoul’s _ , though, seems to be given freely. But that cannot be correct.

Nevertheless, Erik doesn’t bother to inquire what price Raoul will inevitably exact for this. 

His hand travels from the vicomte’s throat to his jaw, cupping it lightly as Erik gets used to the feeling, and Raoul smiles lazily. He gasps as Raoul places a hand atop his thigh, steadying himself as he moves closer. 

“No tricks then?” Erik whimpers.

“I am not the magician in this equation…” Raoul whispers back.

Erik releases a nervous breath, unsure of the next step. He  _ had  _ only ever kissed someone thrice, and each time the other had initiated the action. It  _ seemed  _ simple enough, but nothing terrified Erik as much as mediocrity. He takes a breath, unsure if he’ll truly need it, and presses his lips (uneven and deformed as they are) to Raoul’s. 

It is awkward and terrible and  _ wonderful  _ all at once. He had assumed it wouldn’t take him by surprise if  _ he  _ was the one doing it, but he had never been so pleased to be wrong. Raoul leans into it, his other hand steadying himself on Erik’s shoulder, and for the first time in a  _ long  _ time he feels as though he has nothing to hide. His fingers travel to the roots of the vicomte’s hair and Raoul  _ shivers  _ against him, breaking away for a moment. Erik tenses, expecting some reparation for his lack of experience, and finds the other collapsed against the back of the sofa, panting and running a hand through his hair. 

“Was it not--”

“No,” Raoul interrupts, closing his eyes for a moment. “It was...good.”

“Were you not expecting it to be?” Erik asks, damn-near hurt by the sentiment. 

“I was expecting you to choke me to death, to be quite honest.”

“I could have,” Erik whispers, retreating to his side of the sofa. 

“I know,” Raoul watches him as he reaches for his glass. 

“Don’t!” Erik exclaims, surprising even himself. “ _ You do terrible things when you’re drunk, _ ” he echoes. The vicomte sets his glass down and watches him curiously. 

Erik presses forward, positioning himself above the vicomte, his knee between the other’s thighs. He grips his chin, the vicomte flushing lightly against his hand. Something changes behind the Phantom’s eyes, and he crashes his lips back against the vicomte’s. One hand entwines its fingers in Raoul’s hair, the other still gripping his chin. 

Raoul, in turn, concerns himself with pushing Erik’s suit jacket off his shoulders. Erik’s been terribly overdressed for the entire interaction and that simply wasn’t  _ fair _ . He unbuttons it, and Erik pulls it the rest of the way off with a frustrated vigor that surprises Raoul until he realizes how intent on holding his attention he is. Raoul presses against him, nipping at his lip, traces a few fingers down Erik’s throat, tugging at his tie until Erik captures his hands.

“ _ Vicomte _ ,” Erik whispers, a warning or a  _ threat,  _ and Raoul doesn’t bother to determine which as he presses his lips to his neck. Erik whimpers, fingers gripping the vicomte’s hair with an intensity that he  _ knows  _ must hurt, but cannot stop regardless. Raoul continues his assault, lips traveling as low as they could with Erik still dressed, and it isn’t until he feels Erik’s nails against his scalp that he pulls away. He whimpers, and Erik releases him, taking his chin once more.

“That title is rather worthless these days,” Raoul mutters, meeting his gaze as Erik smiles. 

“Hardly,” Erik teases, fingers tracing from his chin, down his neck, and to Raoul’s undone shirt. “My, what a position the  _ Vicomte de Chagny  _ has found himself in…” he continues in the same taunting tone he had in the bar, voice deep and smooth...even, despite the  _ circumstances _ . 

_ Perhaps he  _ ** _is _ ** _ Mephistopheles. _

He slips a hand beneath Raoul’s shirt, eyes locked with his as it travels back to his throat. “How you’ve  _ changed _ ,” Erik muses, a new note in his voice.

Raoul frowns at that, glancing off as he speaks. “None of us are the people we once were.” His attention centers back on Erik as he squeezes. 

“Perhaps not…” Eriks whispers lowly, thumb tracing over a vein. “Not all change  _ has  _ to be bad, though.” He kisses him tenderly, hand relaxed, but still present on his throat. “I rather like  _ this  _ change,” he murmurs against his lips.

“You seem rather certain of it being a recent development,” Raoul counters just the same.

“Was it not?” Erik asks in earnest, and Raoul smiles.

“Your voice was...not relegated to just my nightmares,” he replies, flushing a bit, observing the other for a moment, about to speak when--

The lock is turning, and Erik is tearing himself off of Raoul as it opens. Christine Daaé is carrying her sleeping son and Meg Giry is carrying a bag from some deli and both of their eyes are jumping from Raoul to Erik to Erik’s suit jacket on the ground and then  _ back  _ to Raoul and Erik. 

“ _ Raoul _ ,” Christine whispers, and it’s a  _ warning _ . 

“ _ Go _ , _ ”  _ Raoul mouths, placing a hand on Erik’s knee as his wife rushes past the pair and into her child’s room, setting Gustave to bed while managing not to wake him, and closing his door. Meg lurks at the edge of the room, unsure what to do, and uncomfortable in the silence.

“I can go…” she offers, glancing to Erik nervously before looking to Raoul. “We can do dinner some other night, before you leave.”

“I do not think that will be necessary, Miss Giry,” Erik utters in a ludicrously professional tone. He rises as Christine enters, quickly darting for the door as she looks to him imploringly. Meg sets the bag on a side table, then picking up Erik’s suitcoat. 

“I should go,” she begins. Christine sighs, and Meg is pulling her into a hug before she can speak. “We’ll dine together before you leave, even if it’s just a quick breakfast before your ship back home is off, all right?” she assures, holding onto her friend as though she wasn’t sure that was true. They part, and Meg rushes out the door, Raoul and Christine now alone to contemplate the situation at hand. 


	2. Chapter 2

“Mister Y!” Meg nearly shouts, barrelling down the staircase of the hotel, Erik just a flight below her. “Wait--  _ Slow down at least! _ ” she continues, nearly out of breath. He pauses,  _ finally _ , and at last Meg manages to catch up. Only then does she notice how quiet and secluded this particular staircase is.

“What you saw  _ cannot _ leave that room,” he warns, or perhaps  _ threatens _ . 

“I would never do such a thing. Not to the Vicomte, not to Christine, not to  _ you _ ,” Meg assures him quickly, hurt by the near-accusation. She offers him his jacket, and Erik’s eyes brighten as he takes it, then darken again as he steps nearer. 

“The Vicomte said you had told him to leave, with  _ Christine _ ,” he begins, and Meg has to tilt her head back to meet his gaze. “Why? Afraid she’d overshadow your  _ performance _ ?” he sneers. 

Meg looks away at that, but mutters lowly, “I’ve worked incredibly hard to get Phantasma to where it is. I deserve a bit of the spotlight for myself…” She raises her eyes back to his. “And you weren’t the only one who loved her,” she says, quiet but strong, and Erik softens. 

“...I did not know...”

“You don’t know a lot of things,” she agrees, emboldened by his attention. “You don’t even  _ know _ Christine, do you?” Erik opens his mouth to speak before being promptly interrupted. “ _ I did _ . Before you ever heard her sing, I knew her.”

“None of us are the people we once were,” he mutters, stepping back, and Meg follows. 

“Maybe we aren’t, but you don’t just stop loving someone because they’ve  _ changed _ ,” she insists, reaching towards him before pausing and stepping back. Silence stretches between them like so much molasses and she sighs, descending another flight without him before she is beckoned back by his voice.

“The Vicomte also mentioned something else…” he begins, slowly descending the stairs until he’s beside her. “Have you something to tell me, Miss Giry?” he asks softly, and she can feel his breath against her hair. 

“I don’t know what he could have heard, all I said was to leave before…” she whispers, and she can feel him chuckle softly. 

“Before...what,  _ Miss Giry _ ?” he purrs.

“I--I must go rehearse, for tonight,” Meg insists as she rushes down another flight of steps. 

“ _ Miss Giry! _ ” he calls, and she freezes in place as he moves to stand beside her once more. “I’m sure you’ve rehearsed plenty, we should  _ talk _ ...somewhere more... _ private _ .”

  
  


Christine is staring at him like he’s gone mad, and perhaps he has. 

“What...happened?” she asks, sitting across from him. He reaches for his glass, and she winces.

He sets the glass down and runs a hand through his hair. “He just...showed up here, got a key from the doorman apparently, demanded answers of me that I did  _ not  _ have...When you went to him, all those years ago, had you intended to--”

“No!” she sputters, surprising even herself. “No, I had just wanted to make sure he was alright, but we began to talk, and it was dark and his  _ voice _ \--”

“Do you feel betrayed?” Raoul asks desperately, eyes dancing from his glass to his wife.

“I’ve no right to, do I?”

“You've a  _ perfect _ right to,” he says, needing her to understand. “I encouraged him, I could have stopped him, he-- he  _ would  _ have stopped, and I didn’t because--” 

“You wanted it, too?” she finishes, and Raoul sighs. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t, don’t apologize, no more  _ apologies _ ,” Raoul insists, beckoning his wife to him. She sits beside him, cheek against his shoulder. 

“What are we going to do?” she asks softly, Raoul holding her closer.

“I don’t know. But whatever happens, Christine...” he whispers, desperate to meet her gaze, “...I won’t leave you to face it alone.”

  
  


Meg Giry is standing in the threshold of his apartment, and it isn’t until he turns to beckon her that she feels it appropriate to enter. She’s been here before, shaken him out of composing frenzies to make meetings, but never  _ invited _ . She steps lightly, the controlled steps of a dancer, and keeps her eyes down. She turns as she hears the door shut, meeting his gaze as he gestures to a chair in what would be a sitting room, were he the sort of man to entertain guests. She sits, hands together in her lap, as he looms over her.

“Is what the  _ vicomte  _ told me true?” he asks, tone low as the lighting. 

“What did he tell you?” she asks in turn, discreetly picking at a nail. 

“ _ Miss Giry… _ ” he taunts, and it’s the same tone that had first drawn her to him. The one she had heard, not in the opera house, but in the ship they had booked passage on. The kind of voice that echoed in dark passages on stormy nights as she snuck food back to their cramped quarters “ _ Tell me the  _ ** _truth._ ** ” 

She peers up at him, the white of his mask being all that’s visible, save for his eyes. “I don’t see why it matters,” Meg mutters, taking a breath before sighing. 

“So it  _ is  _ true, then?” he asks softly.

“I am not so self-sacrificial as to give all that I have for someone I didn’t...love, in the least.” She stills her hands, eyes trying desperately to decipher his reaction in the dark. He takes a step back, and the outline of his mask dissolves into the darkness. She leans forward, trying to find him before--

“And what exactly  _ have  _ you done?” he asks, and it sounds like he is standing in front of her, though she can feel his breath upon her hair. 

“ _ Everything _ ,” she spits, and the vitriol surprises even her. “The investors, the politicians, the  _ land _ ...Do you  _ honestly _ think that all came as easily as it did, without a cost?” She rises and turns, hand furiously searching the dark for him. “I’ve given up everything to help you,  _ everything _ . I could have toured!” She turns once more, pressing forward in her search for him. “Or taught,” she continues, wincing as she bumps a shin into a table, but continuing nonetheless. “Or,  _ God _ , the  ** _baron_ ** ...he’d have married me, let me keep dancing until we had children… I was  _ good _ , I  _ am  _ good…”

“Miss Giry...” His voice is coming from the opposite side of the room, but she knows that can’t be right. “What did you  _ do _ ?”

“No, don’t do  _ that _ .” She sobs. “Don’t make me say it, and do  _ not  _ force your pity upon me. I want  _ none  _ of it.”

“ _ Meg. _ ” It’s a whisper. He stands before her and she reaches out, hand finding his shoulder. “Why?”

“We make choices and they become habits and then it doesn’t feel right to stop, not when you’re so  _ close… _ ” she answers as honestly as she can through tears. “And we wait lifetimes for people who can’t afford to care about us and act surprised when they disappoint us, despite the fact that it’s become a habit for them as much as it has for us.” She swallows, stepping away, and finds him invisible in the dark once more.

“Meg, I--” he begins softly, stepping towards her and into the setting sunlight that barely streams through the curtains. “It isn’t that I don’t care at all, it’s just that—”

“You love Christine.”

“—I didn’t  _ know _ ,” he finishes, and Meg is wiping desperately at her eyes. “I didn’t think you would, to be honest, I didn’t think anyone would. Christine was…”

“It’s always Christine, isn’t it?” Meg mutters bitterly, turning away. “Until it’s  _ the vicomte _ .”

“You don’t understand, that was as surprising to me as it is to you. I am... not often accustomed to people’s desires, least of all in this abundance, and certainly not without having--” He stops himself, and Meg meets his eye once more.

“Given the entirety of your self to them,  _ for  _ them?” she finishes, sigh slipping into a wistful laugh. 

“Meg...I cannot understand why you, or-or  _ the vicomte  _ would...Christine and I are—are— we share  _ the music _ , but--”

“Not I...or  _ Raoul _ , for that matter,” Meg offers.

“That does not mean that--” he pauses, and she glances back towards where they had entered. 

“Call is soon,” she mutters, and Erik sighs. 

“Leave then,  _ if you must _ .” He waves her off, and she pauses in the threshold for a moment before he disappears into the darkness of his apartment once more. 

  
  
  


“We could disappear, you know.” Raoul offers as Christine powders her cheeks. “Move to Sweden, never speak to anyone but the locals again.”

“We need the money,” Christine insists, though her eyes brighten at the idea. “And...I can’t do that to him. One last song, and then perhaps…”

“How sure are you that he’ll let you leave?” Raoul asks, and Christine freezes. 

“He won’t hurt me,” she whispers, her tone betraying her. 

“How sure are you that you’ll want to leave?” Raoul continues, meeting her uncertain gaze in the mirror. “I know I have not--”

“Raoul, we’ve both been--”

“I know there are parts of you, important ones, that I cannot provide for. I’ve deprived you of more than pride or jewels, I know… I just don’t know how to let you go, even if I knew it would make you happy.”

“It wouldn’t,” she assures.

“ _ What _ ?” he begs.

“It wouldn’t, not for long...”

“You cannot live in a world of artifice and beauty forever. It’s like a dream, his world, and I don’t want to be asleep forever but--”

“You need to rest.” Raoul sighs, kneeling before his wife as he had so many years ago when they were younger, happier, and so naive. “But...you will come back to me?”

She nods, taking his hands in hers. “And if I don’t, promise to kiss me awake?” she whispers, all but the image of her former self.

“ _ Little Lotte _ .” He kisses her, and once again he feels like a young patron, and she the rising star. “ _ Say you love me.” _

“You know I do,” she whispers against his lips, following him as he rises.

“Will you be all right here?” he asks, nuzzling her hair. 

“Of course. Will you be watching?”

“Of course, I just wanted to find Gustave...perhaps buy some flowers for you and Miss Giry.”

“Oh,  _ Meg _ , I had nearly forgotten about her performance tonight! Give her my best, in case I don’t see her?” Christine asks, running a thumb over the back of his hand. 

“I will. I’ll see you after the performance?” Raoul asks, pressing his lips to the back of her hand.

“Yes, meet me here,” she instructs before pulling him closer. She kisses him until both are out of breath and she has to pad lipstick off of him before letting him go. 

  
  


“Why can’t we stay with Mother until she goes on?” Gustave asks as Raoul hands the florist just enough money for two roses: one red, one pink.

“Because performers need time to themselves to get ready. There’s makeup and costumes, and getting into character, and besides, we must catch Miss Giry’s performance as well,” he explains, watching Gustave closely as they begin to near Phantasma once more.

“I think I’d like to be a performer one day...or, or maybe a composer!” Gustave muses, looking to his father hopefully. “Could I?”

“Well,” Raoul begins heavily. “You’ll have to practice a lot, start from the chorus and such, but in time, if you work hard enough,  _ perhaps _ .”

“Oh _really_, Papa?” Gustave asks excitedly and Raoul wipes at his eyes. Gustave hadn’t called him _papa _since he was six, _at least_.

“Yes, yes,  _ of course _ ,” he assures, leading his son through the backstage of the theatre.

  
  


Meg is panting. The number isn’t the most physically intensive, but the excitement of it had gotten to her. Her mother is waiting in the wings for her, and Meg gladly takes the offered robe. 

“How do you think it went over?” Meg asks, tying her robe over her undergarments. She hadn’t been  _ completely  _ naked under her costumes, but the umbrella had given that impression to the crowd. “The audience seemed to like it enough, but do you think that was just shock?” 

“They were cheering long before the final change,” Madame Giry assured. 

“Do you think  _ he  _ was watching?” 

Madame Giry sighs. “I suspect not,” she says carefully, watching her daughter closely.

“Figures,” Meg sighs apathetically. “How long until Christine goes on?” 

“Fifteen minutes.”

“Well, I’ll get dressed and try to catch the tail end of it if I can.” Meg glances to the rafters, then paces towards her dressing room. 

“Are you sure you’ll be all right,  _ mon petit cygne _ ?” 

“Oh, I’ll be fine, Mother; I’m_ always _fine,” Meg assures, waving to her mother. “It’s just rather drafty.”

Meg Giry is halfway through dressing when she notices an envelope on her vanity, and she almost trips on her own stockings trying to open it. She makes herself finish dressing before opening, if not to avoid injury.

  
  


_ Miss Giry, _

_ My apologies for not congratulating you in person, but I would like to extend my sincerest gratitude for your work all these years. I am not...always the most insightful of companions, but I hope you can forgive that of me.  _

_ May we speak again when both of us are of better temperaments and circumstances,  _

_ E _

  
  
  


Meg sighs, pushing the note carefully into her pocket as someone knocks at her door.

“Yes?” she calls, and the door opens, Gustave barrelling through and nearly running into her.

“Gustave,  _ slow down _ , Miss Giry isn’t going anywhere,” Raoul huffs.

“Vicomte, what a pleasant surprise. I’d have thought you’d be seated already for Christine’s number,” Meg laughs, smiling as Raoul politely kisses the back of her hand before rising. 

“No, we’re watching from the wings, and Christine insisted that I send you her best,” Raoul answers, producing the pink rose with a fond grin. 

“Oh, thank you!” Meg beams, sniffing the flower. “I suppose that means she didn’t catch my act?”

“I suspect not, preparations and such,” Raoul answers, Gustave tugging at Meg’s skirts.

“Miss Giry, how ever did you change your costumes so fast?” Gustave asks excitedly, Meg chuckling nervously. 

“Snaps and such,” she explains quickly, glancing to Raoul.

“You have so many bathing suits, can you teach me how to swim?” Gustave asks, and Meg can’t help but laugh outright at that. 

“Well, I don’t know,” she answers honestly. “I don’t know how long you’ll be staying, swimming can be hard to learn.” 

“Papa, can we stay long enough to learn to swim?” Gustave asks, and Raoul sighs. 

“That depends on a lot of things...but I promise you’ll get to learn eventually, all right?”

“Alright...but I’d rather learn it from Miss Giry.” Gustave pouts. 

“I’m sure you would. What if, for now, we watched your mother sing?” Raoul offers, taking his son’s hand. “Miss Giry, would you like to accompany us?” 

“Certainly,” she agrees, taking his arm as he leads the three of them to a wing just as the crowd hushes. 

  
  


She’s  _ missed this _ : singing, singing  _ his  _ music, the crowd, the  _ art  _ of it all. She pulls the notes from deep within her soul, a hidden place that she had kept for just herself, and it feels like stretching after a long journey. That kind of comforting ache that fills your entirety. She feels as though she’s soaring, soaring amongst the stars, and it fills her with such awe and dread that she’s terrified to look down. 

But still, a warm presence fills the air. Christine turns, finding her husband and son standing beside her dearest old friend. Meg discreetly waves and Raoul mouths an  _ I love you _ as she forces herself to focus once more on her performance. Their support nearly brings her to tears as she continues her song, breath swarming into her lungs in a hearty gasp that only further strengthens her.

It escapes her all at once: the tears and drinks and longing and the  _ forgiveness _ , the years of yearning and coping, of  _ missing  _ her friend, of missing her  _ husband _ , of missing her  _ angel _ , and it’s then that she meets  _ his  _ gaze and he’s  _ crying _ and so too is she as she completes his song. The audience is silent for a few moments after she finishes, but slowly they rise into their applause, Christine bowing for them and waving as the curtain closes. A songbird has fled its cage, but it’s soon to return. She rushes past stagehands, thanking them as they congratulate her, and sighs deeply as she closes her dressing room door. 

She sinks into her vanity chair and pulls off the gloves, barely a chance to flex her fingers in the chilled air before she notices  _ him _ .

“You were magnificent tonight,” he begins, hesitantly setting a hand upon her shoulder, but smiling when she reaches up to meet it. She turns, standing slowly and taking his hand in hers. 

“Your song was beautiful, and I felt beautiful and  _ whole _ ,” she whispers, melting against him as he cups her cheek. “And  _ alive _ .” 

“All those years, alone in my composition…” he mutters, mask awkwardly against her forehead as he nears, pausing before his lips can meet hers. “To hear it,  _ finally _ .” He presses forward, lips capturing hers before retreating for a breath. She grasps him, kissing him back with all the lost love and time and fury of ten years, and all the tenderness that bloomed at the beginning of their relationship.

  
  


Raoul turns his attention to Meg as Christine makes her exit, offering his spare hand to her and gesturing for his son to follow. “Join us, to congratulate her?” he asks.

Meg sighs sadly, but nods. “Of course.” She takes his hand. Gustave tugs at her skirt.

“Don’t you think mother was lovely?” he asks excitedly, and Meg sighs.

“ _ Heavenly _ ,” she replies as sweetly as she can manage. Raoul squeezes her hand softly as they approach the dressing room, then promptly releasing her.

“Miss Giry, would you mind watching Gustave? I’d like a moment alone with my wife,” Raoul asks, taking a deep breath as he fiddles with the ribbon he had tied onto his red rose.

“Right,” Meg agrees. “Just a couple of minutes?”

“Just a couple of minutes,” he assures, hand on the doorknob as she retreats, Gustave nearly bouncing with excitement as he chatters away at Meg. 

He enters, and his wife is cupping Erik’s face, eyes pressed shut as she kisses him. Raoul’s hand tightens around the step of the rose, thorns pressing against his skin, but he does not notice. The pair of them pull away at once, Erik glaring at him, near to speech when he’s interrupted. 

“Little Lotte,” Raoul begins, Christine finally meeting his eye. “ _ Do you wish to wake? _ ” he whispers as she nears, burying her face in his chest. He presses a cheek against her hair as he holds her.

“Not yet,” she whispers against him. “ _ Please forgive me _ , but  _ not yet _ .”

Raoul pulls away, kissing her forehead and handing her the rose. “Return home to me at midnight?” he offers, then taking a hand and pressing his lips to the back of it. “If you feel safe here alone, that is,” he adds, glancing then to the other man. 

“ _ Midnight? _ ” Christine sighs, setting the rose down and kissing her husband softly. “Midnight then,” she agrees, pulling away until just their hands touch.

“Don’t let your mind wander  _ too far _ ,” Raoul warns, squeezing her hand reassuringly before releasing her.

Christine sets the rose down as he bows. “Tell Gustave that...that I have to stay late negotiating my contract,” she instructs as he kisses the back of her hand before releasing it. 

“I will, I’m sure he’ll be rather tired anyway,” Raoul assures her, glancing at Erik for a moment before making his exit. Christine is frozen where she stands, watching the closed door for just a moment too long before finally wiping at her eyes. 

“Did he--”

“Midnight,” Christine interrupts. “We have until midnight…” she sinks into her vanity chair once more. 

“And then...you return to  _ him _ ?” Erik demands as she pulls her necklace off. “Back to his debts and drinking and gambli--”

“From what I’ve heard, you’re a gambler yourself...and you don’t play for coins,” Christine dares, pulling pins out of her hair. “You had intended to make a bet to see who would  _ win  _ me...as though I were poker chips.” She meets his gaze in the mirror.

“It wasn’t like that--”

“No, it was...We aren’t in Paris anymore,  _ I cannot disappear for you _ . I have a position and a marriage and a  _ child _ \--”

“You soared tonight, and you would let  _ him  _ clip your wings once more?” Erik asks desperately as she rises.

“He is my  _ husband _ ,” Christine begins, detaching the train from her dress and laying it across the vanity. “And even the strongest of songbirds cannot fly forever, I  _ have  _ to rest,” she continues strongly, facing him as she should have all those years ago. “And I  _ love  _ him.”

“And do you not…” he trails off into a whisper.

“Don't say that,” she insists, taking his hand in hers. “I had thought you might understand, I could not rid myself of my love for him and _I don’t want to_.” She traces a thumb over the back of his hand before releasing it and stepping away. “But understand _this_, Erik: I will _never _forgive you if you hurt him again. You cannot split us so that you may have me to _yourself_. I have loved that boy since before you ever knew me, and I do _not _intend upon stopping now.”

“I...I won’t,” he promises softly, distantly. “I don’t even know if I  _ could _ , not now…" 

Christine sighs; this afternoon's revelations were a discussion for  _ another  _ time when Raoul was present. This time was for  _ them _ . “I really must change,” she announces after a few moments of silence. “I would hate for anything to happen to this dress.”

“Right,” he agrees, glancing to the door. “And then…”

“We’ll go somewhere more  _ private _ , where stagehands and dancers aren’t lurking about.” 

  
  


Raoul is rubbing at his eyes, though tears refuse to come. He knows,  _ knows _ , she will return to him, but that does not make their parting any less terrifying. It’s barely 9:00, and he wanders the backstage until Meg comes upon him with his son. She sighs as he desperately tries to smile for his son. 

“Papa, when do we get to see Mother again?” Gustave asks, taking his father’s hand. 

“I’m afraid she’s currently tied up with...contract negotiations,” Raoul explains falsely, looking to Meg with parallel grief. “You can congratulate her tomorrow.”

Gustave pouts, but yawns. “Fine,” he says tiredly. Raoul tugs him towards an exit, then glancing back towards Meg. 

“Miss Giry, if you aren’t busy--”

“I should get home. I have rehearsals tomorrow and I want to wake early enough to see the reviews once they come out,” she insists. 

“I promise not to keep you too late,” he assures her, offering his free hand. “And really, I must thank you for watching over Gustave.”

Meg hesitates, but takes his hand and offer.


	3. Chapter 3

Even with the lamps lit and a candle on the piano, Erik’s apartment is still dim. Moonlight peers through the window, cutting a line of light across the space. 

“I’ve been writing,” Erik begins timidly. “Not just arias, full scores and solo pieces, even some for the violin.”

Christine smiles. “I think I may be rather rusty.”

“I’m sure you could pick it up once more,” Erik sings, digging through his scores. “Does...does Gustave play?”

“Nearly as well as the man he’s named for,” Christine answers wistfully. “I taught him...Raoul tried to learn when he was younger, but not even my father could manage to get him in key.” She chuckles at that, eyes bright with distant memories. 

“He’s...talented, gifted beyond belief. He could be better than even you or I if he had the right tutor--”

“He’s a child...I’d like him to get to  _ be  _ a  _ child _ and not have his talent thrust upon the world like some—”

“—Circus freak,” Erik mutters, setting aged parchments aside. 

“Erik, I--”

“Don’t,” he insists. “I don’t want your pity, not  _ now _ .” Christine frowns, glancing to the pile of compositions and plucking one out. 

“What is this one about?” she asks, site reading it. “My Latin is rusty.”

Erik perks up, looking over her shoulder and smiling. “It’s an ensemble piece, for an opera based on  _ Masque of the Red Death _ . The chorus sings this as the plague infects the party-goers, it’s slow at first, soft enough to be overshadowed by the band and the dancing, but slowly it  _ builds _ , each infected guest joining softly until it overpowers the scene. Then, at its crescendo--” he pauses dramatically, moving quickly to the piano, fingers flawlessly dancing across the keys. “It suddenly  _ drops _ and the infected collapse in their illness.” He demonstrates, the notes hanging discordant in the air. 

“Is that how it ends?” Christine asks, sitting besides him and parsing out the soprano line slowly. 

“For the most part. I  _ have  _ made some changes to the original,” he explains, lazily playing the tenor line. “The story usually ends with all the desperate nobles succumbing to the  _ Red Death _ , their secluded party all for nought, but...” he teases, Christine looking to him curiously.

“ _ But _ ?” 

“There is one woman who survives. She snuck in, intent upon demanding answers of the nobles for  _ why  _ they let their people suffer. She’s the first to spot the Red Death, but she does not warn them. Instead, the Red Death  _ kisses  _ her, and she remains unaffected as the nobles drop like flies...There’s a duet here,  _ somewhere _ , between her and the Red Death, and it ends on a reprise of it as she stands alone amongst the nobles, his voice distant on the wind.”

“Why didn’t you ever produce it?” Christine asks, fingers frozen on the piano. 

“I did not have the cast for it. Try as she may, Miss Giry is a  _ mezzo  _ on her best days,” he answers honestly, pulling a page from the pile and setting it on the piano. “Regardless, it wouldn’t have... _ felt right _ . I wrote it...for  **you** , and to produce, to  _ hear it _ from anyone but  **you** , I could never  _ betray  _ you like that.” His voice breaks into a whisper, and he focuses on the music before him. 

“Erik...”

“You’re leaving in the morning, aren’t you?” he asks, eyes staring blankly at the paper as his fingers glide over the keys from memory. “With the Vicomte and the boy…”

“No,” Christine answers carefully. “Not tomorrow, at least. We’d have to settle our debts and arrange for our travel and such. My contract with Hammerstein was supposed to last a few weeks...we hadn’t really accounted for  _ this _ .” 

“But you will,” he states resolutely. “You and our son,  _ gone _ .”

“I don’t know,” she whispers honestly. “But I can’t,  _ won’t _ , just leave Raoul. He  _ raised  _ Gustave. Do you know how hurt he’d be if his father just  _ disappeared _ ?”

“Am I not enou--”

“It’s not  _ about that _ !” Christine snaps, rising. “It’s  _ never  _ been about that. I am no more satisfied by the prospect than you are…” she sighs, looking over his shoulder as he continues to play mindlessly. “Don’t despise me for things that haven’t happened yet,” she whispers, resting her cheek against his as she holds him.

“I could never despise you, Christine,” he assures, eyes pressed shut as they both sink into their music. 

  
  


Gustave barely makes it into his pajamas before falling asleep atop the sheets, which Raoul carefully pull out from under him to cover him properly. He closes the door softly and luckily finds his guest still waiting.

“Well, it seems the excitement has properly tired him out,” Raoul says softly, crossing the room to meet Meg where she stood.

“He was very eager, lots of questions…” Meg replies stiffly. “Very curious, very like his mother, when she was younger.”

“Oh yes, I know,” Raoul smiles bashfully. “We were such lovely friends then, when her father was still alive.” He sighs then, turning to the star map and retrieving a bottle. “I don’t suppose you drink, do you?”

“Drowning your sorrows once more?” Meg questions, nearing. 

“It isn’t drowning your sorrows if you’re with a friend...it’s a  _ party _ ,” he parries weakly, pulling two glasses out. 

“ _ Here _ ?” Meg questions, glancing to the sofa. 

“Perhaps...do you have a better spot?” he asks, sucking in a breath, desperate to get to the bottle, but restraining himself for the moment. 

  
  


The duet needs work, he knew this when he brought it out, but it isn’t until he hears Christine try to navigate it that he realizes precisely  _ where  _ changes need to occur. Some of the language is too obvious, some of the notes not  _ quite  _ right, but his muse inspires corrections as much as she had its creation.

His fingers are stained with ink when she sits beside him once more, tired from more than just the night, but not quite ready for sleep. He forces his entirety to relax, not wanting her to feel him tense as she rests her cheek on his shoulder. She lazily replays her line, humming along and frowning at the parts that don’t work. He wishes he had done more before her arrival, wishes he had filled his dim apartment with flowers or candles or both, but she remains regardless, and he has to force himself to get used to the feeling.

“ _ I love you _ ,” slips out of him before he can stop himself, and she freezes. 

“I know,” she replies astutely and she  _ wants  _ to return the sentiment, but it feels like a betrayal. 

“ _ Stay _ ,” he entreats, and she can feel his breath against her hair. She swallows back tears, hands at the piano once more.

“Till midnight,” she promises, refusing to meet his eye. 

  
  
  


Raoul is swinging his legs off the end of a pier, and it makes him feel like a child (and also as though he’s about to lose his shoes to the sea). The night air is rapidly chilling, but the bourbon warms him plenty. Meg’s eyes gleam in the moonlight and she inhales the salty air, both distant and at peace at once.

“When you said you had somewhere, I’d have thought you meant your apartment,” Raoul teases, looking out the glimmering waters. 

“Heavens, no, Mother would never approve.” Meg sighs, eyes pressed shut as she listens to the waves upon the shore. “I love this spot.” 

“All those lights and glitter and  _ this  _ is your favorite spot?”

“You get used to it after a while, but the  _ quiet  _ is nice, the  _ simplicity _ .” She opens her eyes, looking back to the isle and reaching for the bottle. She takes a swig, grimacing and coughing. “Vicomte, I’d have thought you’d have more... _ expensive _ taste, to say the least.” She hands it back to him and he laughs bitterly.

“I can’t afford my expensive taste,” he states plainly, taking a swig himself without consequence. “When I was younger, it was for the flavor; now it’s just…” He trails off, staring at his wedding band. “She sings to the heavens his composed melodies--”

“And we are left alone on earth…” Meg mutters, taking another swig and grimacing still.

“Perhaps we should busy ourselves with more earthly pleasures, if we are to he left behind, that is,” Raoul suggests, looking to the bottle in her hands. She passes it back, and he downs another mouthful. 

“Your pleasures don’t seem particularly sustainable,” Meg warns. 

“None of my pleasures are,  _ Miss Giry _ ,” he counters, a morose kind of smile infecting his expression as he drinks once more, eyeing her daringly.

“ _ Vicomte! _ ” Meg exclaims in exaggerated offense, snatching the bottle from his hands. “Perhaps you should slow down if you’re making such  _ propositions _ ...though you wouldn’t be the first to.” She shivers in the cold, and he pulls his jacket off.

“I’m joking,” he assures, setting it upon her shoulders. “ _ Mostly _ ,” he adds, and Meg grins at that.

“I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised, not with my performance tonight.” She glances to him and drinks. 

“It was...very  _ modern _ ,” he replies hesitantly, and she releases an exaggerated huff. 

“It’s an artform, you know: you know the opera house did the same productions, same composers year after year. Same costume style, same musical style, same  _ everything _ . As  _ modern  _ as this place is, time at least  _ moves forward _ . You should see some of the performers in this city, some of the  _ clubs _ . There’s new styles of music and dance  _ everywhere _ ,” she insists, frowning when he chuckles.

“Perhaps, but why  _ bathing beauty _ ?” he asks genuinely. 

“Women have been getting arrested, skirts ‘too short’ at the beach,” she begins, eyes drawn once more to the water. “But the longer your skirt is, the more it weighs you down in the water...women have drowned out there in the name of  _ public decency. _ ” She drinks once more. “Besides, it’s  _ fun  _ and it brings in the crowds, it’s no different than doing  _ Faust  _ for the third time in five years. Don’t be a  _ snob _ , Vicomte,” she adds, passing him the bottle. 

“I’m not,  _ I’m not _ ,” he assures. “Just curious, is all. You seem to...have a passion for it, at  _ least _ .” He drinks, the cold seeps through his vest, and he scoots closer. Meg leans against him, looking to the tides as though they held answers. 

“You could sink into this place and never be found,” she whispers apathetically. 

“That doesn’t mean no one would look for you,” he whispers back, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.

“You should have left when I warned you,” Meg mutters, meeting his gaze.

“I promised to follow her anywhere she led. I’m trying to get better at keeping my promises,” he answers softly, and the waves nearly drown him out. “I don’t know if I’d  _ want _ to leave if that were even a choice. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt  _ known  _ by the people around me.”

“It’s been a long time since I’ve  _ known _ the people around me.”

“Perhaps we’re both stuck here then,” he muses, and he can smell the bourbon on their breaths. “What a horrid fate indeed,” he adds, and he feels like he’s about to make a _bad _decision. “_Miss Giry_\--” 

“What time is it?” she asks suddenly. He glances to his pocket watch and frowns. 

“A bit after eleven-thirty,” he answers, shifting away. “We should head back,” he stands, swaying for a moment, and offers his free hand. She takes it, swaying herself. “Let me make sure you get home safe.”

“All right,” she agrees, keeping his hand in hers. 

He’s halfway back to the hotel before he realizes he had forgotten his coat. He takes another drink to warm himself. 

Christine enters their hotel room just a minute before midnight and finds her husband staring dead-eyed at the wall in front of him. His fingers are curled loosely around an empty bottle, his hair messy in his eyes. She closes the door, and he’s immediately to his feet. He faces her, trying to compose himself and only partially succeeding. She knows that look, knows that smell and that imbalance. 

“ _ Raoul _ —”

“Does Little Lotte wish to wake?” he asks desperately, crossing the parlor to meet her. 

She can smell the bourbon on his breath. “For now,” she answers honestly, and he sinks to his knees before her, grasping at her skirts. “Raoul, we need to talk. Not tonight, but we need to talk.”

“ _ Anything _ ,” he agrees, holding her as though she’d drift away.


	4. Chapter 4

Meg wakes at six despite not having fallen asleep until one, but forces herself into good spirits regardless. Her head is pounding and the stage lights are  _ much  _ too bright and she almost wishes she had another bottle to share with the Vicomte. For now, all she has is rehearsals, four more shows, and the vicomte’s suit jacket, which still smells like bourbon and the sea. 

Her mother pulls her into her office before her first performance and reads aloud the reviews. Meg soon finds herself more annoyed with her mother’s  _ volume _ than she is with being overshadowed by Christine’s aria. Madame Giry notices.

“Meg, are you  _ hungover _ ?” she demands, setting the paper aside. “You  _ cannot _ be slipping up now, he was with  _ Christine  _ last night!”

“I know,” Meg mutters absently. “And I was with the vicomte, rather fitting don’t you think?”

“Meg!” she exclaims, her daughter wincing. “That man will bring nothing but trouble,” she warns, and Meg scoffs. 

“That’s all  _ any  _ man brings, even  _ him _ ,” she huffs, rising much too quickly, but rushing from the room nonetheless. _Especially **him.**_

  
  


Her fifth show wraps up with applause that is  _ just now _ beginning  _ not  _ to hurt and she  _ wants  _ to just tug off her costume and sink into the sea, but she’s not a moment in her dressing room when someone knocks. She knows it isn’t her mother, she’d have come right in, and she knows it isn’t  _ him _ . Instead, it’s the youngest of stage fencers Phantasma employed and Meg  _ knows  _ that look. 

“Um...Miss Giry, I know you probably want to get home, but I was wondering if you could help me practice the new choreography for next week’s round of shows?” he asks, staring at his hands.

Meg sighs tiredly. “Of course,” she agrees. “This is the Roselinda plot, right?” the boy nods. “All right, let me change and I’ll meet you onstage.”

“Oh, thanks, Miss Giry!” he responds in excitement, nearly bouncing out of the room. Meg takes a deep breath, diving into the closet of her dressing room and pulling out a blouse and trousers. It would do the boy no good to try duelling someone in skirts when his partner would normally be a man. 

He’s quick to toss her a foil when she enters, and she’s quicker to catch it. 

“Alright, let’s see where you’re at with the choreography,” she begins, taking her position as he advances, and she can see why he wanted help. His torso is in the right place, but his footwork is atrocious. It’s only practice, but Meg has him tripping over his own feet in minutes. 

“I’m sorry, Miss Giry,” he stutters out, and she shakes her head.

“Don’t apologize,  _ improve _ . Your life isn’t at stake, but the audience doesn’t want to know that. Stance wide, eyes on me.  _ It's just like dancing _ ,” she instructs, working through the motions of the choreography once more. “You’re fighting for the hand and honor of your lady-love,  _ act like it _ .” The boy falls backwards as she presses forward. “Your partner isn’t going to be able to help you up, it’s their job to convince the audience they want you dead. So, if you fall, what do you do?”

“Fight back… get back up!” the boy exclaims, raising his foil against hers and rising quickly. 

“ _ Excellent _ !” Meg presses forward once more, the boy grounding himself. They remain stagnant for a moment before the safety tip of his foils wacks her arms. He goes white, dropping his foil and rushing towards her. “Stop, I’m  _ fine _ ,” Meg insists, eyeing his foil on the ground. “This is all for show, these things aren’t going to de-limb anyone, so focus more on meeting your partner’s foil and less on avoiding all else.”

“Right,” he agrees, lifting his foil and, without warning, clashing his with hers.

Her eyes brighten. “Good!” she exclaims. “Now, fight like everything is at stake, because—”

“—It is,” he finishes, feet moving through the choreography smoothly. He adds flourishes, and by the end of the routine, both are satisfied with his progress. 

Meg grins, “Well, it would appear as though you’ve won the hand and honor of your love.” She bows, passing him the foil. “Now, be sure to put these back in the prop closet.”

“Thanks, Miss Giry!” he shouts as she walks back to her dressing room.

She’s in the middle of putting up her hair properly when she hears another knock. She knows it isn’t her mother, and she knows it isn’t  _ him _ . 

“Enter,” she huffs, pins in her mouth. Doctor Gangle opens the door, bowing as the rest of the trio enter. They’re back in their streetwear, which remains odd and dark, but not as theatrical as their stage clothes. 

“The master has requested your presence,” Ms. Fleck announces, and Meg sighs. 

“Right now?” she asks as she pushes the last pin into her updo.

“The master always expects his requests to arrive with some...expediency.” Squelch explains, and Meg sighs, retrieving the vicomte’s jacket. She’d taken it with her as a reminder to return it, but as it was, it appeared as though she wouldn’t have the time to.

“Lead the way then, I suppose.” 

She’s standing before Erik, and though he tries to conceal it, he’s looking at her as though she were a ghost. 

“Thank you, you all are dismissed for the day.” he tells the trio, waiting for them to close the door to turn his attention back upon her. He hasn’t invited her to, but she takes a seat, eyeing the empty one across from her. “Have you read the reviews?” he asks after a moment, her eyes still adjusting to the dim apartment.

“Yes, Christine was received very well,” Meg answers, nearly robotically.

“Have you read yours?” he then elaborates, producing a newspaper. 

“I’m afraid Mother only got through so many _Rising Starlet Meg Giry Fails to Surpass Her Night’s Competition_ headlines before I had to go on this morning.” Meg takes a breath, idly fiddling with a button on the vicomte’s jacket as he sits. 

He frowns. “There were others…” he trails off, eyes drawn to her hands before focusing once more on the paper. “ _ Refreshing and Surprisingly Relevant, was Meg Giry’s ‘Bathing Beauty’ A Protest or Classic Coney Island Fare? _ ” he quotes, handing her the paper. “They weren’t the only ones to ask that. I’ve had three separate papers ask for a comment.”

Meg rises, looking over the review and grinning. “Well, at least  _ someone  _ got it.” She glances to him and huffs at his sour expression. “It’s free publicity, we’re a private venue, no one’s going to try and enforce here--”

“Is that the vicomte’s suit jacket?” he asks, voice soft only in volume, and Meg sits back down. 

“I had intended upon returning it today, just didn’t want to forget,” Meg explains, gripping it tighter.

“ _ Why do you have it _ ?” he demands. He doesn’t raise his voice, but it echoes through the room nonetheless. 

“You haven’t the right to that information,” Meg states simply enough, and he sneers. 

“Some of the dancers are saying you were hungover this morning,” he begins, rising and circling round the seats. “And that  _ thing  _ reeks of cheap bourbon. Planning on joining him in his bad habits?” he asks condescendingly.

“He and I aren’t the only ones with ‘bad habits’—do you often make a  _ habit _ of threatening the lives of children?” she dares, turning to meet his eye as he pauses behind her.

“ _ Insolent _ \--”

“Christine and I were friends long before you knew her, do you think she would not confide in me?” Meg taunts, watching him as closely as she can in the dim room. 

“And you reward such confessions by enabling her husband’s bad habits?” he counters haughtily.

“As though you have  _ any _ room to speak on  _ that  _ front!” Meg rises, nearing him as his eyes darken further. 

“I’m beginning to doubt your own confessions,  _ Miss Giry _ ,” he spits, and he  _ knows  _ that isn’t fair fodder and he does it anyway. She gasps, watching him with all the anger and fury that such a betrayal brings until he disappears into his own darkness. Silence fills the room, and she refuses to break it with tears. 

“ I never knew you as  _ angel _ , I hardly knew you as  _ the phantom _ , Mother was always rather clear about what you  _ really  _ were,” she begins. Her voice nearly echoes and she hears footsteps from the far side of the room.

“And what is that?" He asks, and his voice  _ sounds  _ like it’s behind her. She doesn’t feel his breath against her hair, and pads through the dark room with all the grace of the dancer she still was. 

"Just a man...as mortal and mediocre as the rest of us, who will leave nothing behind but a trail of blood and a child that will never truly  _ know  _ him. Christine doesn’t know you like that, not even the vicomte does, but  _ I do _ ."

“Perhaps you should take your mother’s old advice,” his voice is now to her side. “And remain  _ silent _ .” His voice is now in front of her.

“No more illusions, _Mister Y!_" Meg roars, turning and colliding with him. They crash to the ground, his mask knocked off in the process. **_Like yellow parchment is his skin_**_._ The last of the sunset streams through the curtains **_a great black hole served as the nose which never grew_** and his eyes are filled with more fear than rage. **_You must always be on your guard or he will catch you with his magical lasso!_** He tries to cover his face, but Meg captures his wrists before he can. “_No more illusions_,” she repeats and he shudders beneath her. He could escape her, if he wanted to, and they both knew that, but they remain still in their position until the sun sets fully, cloaking them both in darkness once more. 

She releases him, taking a deep breath and shaking her head. “I’m sorry, I-I don’t know what came over me, I-” she begins to climb off of him when he grasps her hand.

“Don't-- ” he whispers desperately.  _ Don't apologize. Don't stop. Don't  _ ** _leave_ ** _ . _

"I...I should go," she mutters unmoving. 

" _ Please! _ " he begs, releasing her regardless.

"No... _ no _ , you have Christine and the Vicomte and--and" she wipes at her eyes furiously. "It's not  _ fair _ to them," she rises and is out the door before he can speak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW IT'S BEEN A WHILE so more is coming soon I PROMISE I have not abandoned my child


	5. Chapter 5

Raoul jolts awake, a thin sheen of sweat covering his entirety, and phantom hands upon his throat. The sun is just rising, and Christine rests peacefully beside him. He’s careful as he gets up, as quiet as he can manage as he shaves and washes his face. He dresses fully, peeking into Gustave’s room before heading to the parlor. It isn’t  _ terrible _ , the cushions are awry and the empty bottle from the night before is on the floor. His head is still foggy from the previous night’s activities, but he puts the cushions back and places the empty bottle in the star map before Christine can wake. When she does, he’s sitting on the sofa and trying to focus on the morning’s paper. 

“You should see the reviews,” Raoul remarks, rising and kissing his wife. “You were  _ very  _ well received.” 

“Raoul,” Christine sighs, and he frowns. “We need to speak, all  _ three  _ of us.”

“ _ Three?  _ You mean you, I, and  _ him _ ?” he whispers. “What happened won’t again, I pro--”

“That’s not all. He’s been  _ composing _ ,” she explains, and Raoul swallows at nothing. 

“You want to stay?  _ Here? _ ” 

“Just until this production is done,”

“He doesn’t exactly seem like the type to stop writing.”

“He...isn’t” Christine confirms, taking her husband’s hand. “Would it  _ really  _ be so terrible to stay here?” she asks softly. 

“I can’t lose you, not to him, not to  _ any  _ of it.” Raoul sputters desperately. 

“Do you not trust me--”

“I don’t trust any of us around  _ him _ !” Raoul admits harshly. “Not you and  _ certainly  _ not me. I don’t trust myself to-- to  _ maintain _ around him--”

“You wouldn’t have to,” Christine assures softly. “I...I understand what it’s like, somewhat, when he’s  _ like that _ . I’ve no right to be angry with you for it and, quite honestly,  _ I don’t want to be _ .” her confession escapes all at once, and Raoul huffs in disbelief.

“Christine--”

“Please, can we at least discuss it, with  _ him _ ?” She asks, and he cannot refuse her. 

“Alright,” he agrees, and the brightness in her eyes is almost enough to assuage him. “Later? We have debts to settle and arrangements to make with the hotel, and we’ve yet to actually take Gustave anywhere--”

“Later,” she agrees, kissing him tenderly as someone knocks at the door. They part, and Raoul is the first to the door, and the first to see the trio enter. Doctor Gangle holds out a tray, a letter with an all too familiar seal a top it. 

“A message,” Gangle begins.

“From  _ the master _ ,” Ms.Fleck continues.

“To Miss Christine Daae,” Squelch concludes, gesturing to the tray as Christine nears. 

“ _ Mrs.Daae,  _ in the very least…” Raoul mutters as Christine opens the envelope. “A  _ summons _ ?” he asks, somewhat bitterly. 

Christine shakes her head, “Thank you, you may  _ leave _ .” She insists firmly, the trio bowing and drifting from the room. Once alone, Christine takes a seat, her husband following soon after.

“Christine, what is it?” Raoul asks softly. 

“ _ To my Angel, all that I have promised and all that you are owed, _ ” she begins, pulling a check from the envelope. “ _ May your Vicomte find you in good health and spirits in the day, and may you  _ ** _both _ ** _ consider this an open invitation, should you find such invitation necessary. _ ” she glances to the check, the exact amount they had agreed upon, and then to her husband. 

“Not a summons...an  _ invitation _ ?” Raoul utters curiously. “You don’t think he--”

“I think we’re all long tired of  _ fighting  _ one another.” Christine sighs, biting at a nail. 

“Christine I  _ love  _ you, but he--”

“I know  _ exactly  _ what being around  _ him  _ is like.” she huffs. “And it never made me love  _ you  _ any less.”

“Do you honestly think he’ll ever let us go?”

“He’s not going to trap us in his penthouse--”

“That’s not what I meant,” Raoul gulps. “When he and I-- the only thing that woke me in those moments was  _ you _ . What is to awaken us if he has us  _ both _ ?”

“No one can sleep  _ forever  _ Raoul, even  _ I  _ couldn’t sleep forever, and that was  _ before  _ you became a patron.” Christine explains. 

Raoul takes a breath, then looking to the check. “Well, before any of  _ that _ , we should probably get our-- _ my _ affairs in order.”

“ _ Our _ ,” Christine insists. 

“You didn’t get us into this mess,” he huffs.

“I married this mess, it’s  _ our _ .” She continues, eyeing him. “We’ll visit him tonight then, after we settle our debts and the hotel bill and put Gustave to bed--”

“Do you think  _ he  _ will still be awake after all that?” Raoul asks, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. 

“He doesn’t sleep very often.” 

  
  


Meg has been gone for what seems like hours, and Erik is still lying flat on the ground. Moonlight streams through the curtains, occasionally blocked out by the oncoming storm that he can feel in the leg he broke as a child trying to escape the townspeople. The memory leaves as cold a feeling in his gut as the sea breeze rushing in from the window. The floor, even with the Persian rug, digs into his spine and joints, a somewhat mild side-effect of his living death. 

“Are you sure he's even here?” he hears The Vicomte whisper-shouts from beyond the front door. “I’d have thought he’d  _ greeted  _ us by now. He doesn’t seem the type to not make his presence known.” Erik rises. 

“He may be busy,” Christine assures, knocking at the door. Erik scrambles for his mask, straightening his suit as he rushes towards them. He swallows, smoothing over his hair before opening the door. 

“Vicomte...Miss Daae,” he greets, overly formal as the couple looks to him curiously. 

Raoul rolls his eyes, brushing past him. “It’s  _ Mrs.Daae _ , in the  _ very least _ !” Raoul huffs, though his indignation turning playful as he turns back to lead his wife in. “She is a  _ married  _ woman after all.” Christine takes his hand, watching Erik as he stares into the hall for  _ far too long _ . “Do you not have  _ lamps _ , at least?” Raoul asks, squinting. 

“I...will light some candles,” Erik assures, closing the door. “And the lamps,  _ I have lamps _ .” he continues, nearly drifting through the room as he does so. His eyes don’t meet theirs again until the room shines far brighter than it ever had. 

“May we?” Christine asks, glancing to a sofa.

“Of course!” Erik insists nervously. “My sincerest of apologies, that should have been the first thing I--”

“Mister Y it’s a sofa, you need not be so concerned.” Raoul remarks, sitting beside his wife as Erik takes a seat across from them. 

“I’m not, and you need not call me that. Not after…” Erik looks off. “I had not been expecting you,” he explains. 

“Was the note not an invitation?” Raoul asks, glancing to Christine. 

“No!” Erik booms, then lowering his tone. “ _ No _ , I just had not thought you would come  _ tonight _ .”

“Perhaps we should have asked the trio,” Christine ponders to her husband. 

“No...no  _ you  _ are always welcome here.” Erik beams, glancing between the two. “A surprise, but a pleasant one I assure you.” he looks to the Vicomte, then back to Christine. “May I ask the purpose of this visit?”

“I had thought it best if we  _ all  _ discussed what next we plan,” Christine begins, glancing to Raoul before meeting Erik’s eye once more. “We’ve decided to stay in New York...at least for the time being.”

“ _ You _ ...to  _ stay _ ?” he asks incredulously, glancing to Raoul.

“Anywhere she goes, I follow  _ Monsieur _ .” Raoul replies casually. “Even to the depths of hell.”

“ _ Raoul! _ ”

“I assure you I do not dare speak of events past.” he mutters, glancing to Erik. “This city’s French is terrible.”

“It’s full of Americans,” Erik quips, and Raoul smiles, then glancing to his wife. Erik notices, following his gaze. “ _ Christine _ …” and it’s the same voice he  _ always  _ calls her with. “ _ Why have you brought him here? _ ”

“I’m...tired, tired of feeling like I have to sacrifice part of myself no matter who I  _ choose  _ as though it’s a  _ choice _ at all!” she admits as her husband takes her hand. 

“ _ Victomte? _ ” Erik commands

Raoul shudders, then swallows. “I promised her that whatever happened, she wouldn’t face it alone,” he begins, Christine squeezing his hand assuringly. “I’m trying to get better at keeping my promises…”

“ _ And is that all _ ?” he taunts, and Christine eyes him in warning.

“My wife comes first in all things Monsieur,” Raoul asserts.

“ _ Does she now? _ ” he dares.

“ _ Erik! _ ” Christine scolds as Raoul blushes. 

“ _ My apologies Miss Daae _ , was this not heading in the direction that I had assumed?” he asks sincerely, eyes averting theirs. 

“I think it would be best if we not...encourage such activities tonight.” she explains, her husband rising. 

“I need a drink,” he mutters, wandering towards a small cabinet across the room. 

“ _ Raoul _ ,” Christine warns softly. 

He sighs “Do you happen to have anything...light, Mister Y?” 

“There is a cider in that cabinet, hardly a drop of anything serious in it.” Erik answers, watching him carefully. 

“And would either of you like a glass?” Raoul asks, pouring his own.

“ _ Please _ ,” Erik replies, suddenly desperate to have something to do with his hands. 

“I suppose it isn’t poisoned then?” he mutters. 

“ _ Raoul _ ,” 

“No, monsieur, I don’t make a habit of poisoning people. It’s not a form of death I find aesthetically pleasing.” Erik assures, a gasp escaping him as Raoul chuckles. 

Raoul sits beside Christine, taking her hand once more and kissing her. “You deserve it,” he begins, pulling away only slightly. “You deserve whatever we are capable of making this and  _ so much more _ .” His lips taste of cinnamon, his breath of apples, a refreshing change from the cheap bourbon of years past, and Christine can’t help but believe him. 

“We should talk about Gustave,” she whispers after a moment. 

“He cannot know,” Erik utters just as softly. 

“I think on that we’re all agreed,” Raoul sighs. “But I cannot imagine you would be satisfied being a doting spector to  _ him _ .”

“No, but I’ve grown rather accustomed to swallowing dissatisfaction” Erik confesses. “Though, he is of great talent and mind. It would be...unfair to him, to stifle such a thing.”

“He is a  _ child _ ,” Christine miffs.

“I am not suggesting that you--  _ we _ tout him about as some child-genius. No child deserves to be  _ displayed _ …” he swallows at nothing, then downs his cider and rises. “Just that I think it would be good for him to be encouraged.”

“And do you think you’re in the position to  _ encourage _ him?” Raoul asks, watching as Erik paces. 

“No...no I frighten him, it wouldn’t be good to associate his talents with fear.” Erik laments, pausing at the piano and digging through sheet music. “But I have a piece I wrote for him. It should challenge him, but he’ll learn from it.” he offers, Christine rising to take it. 

“Thank you,” Christine whispers, kissing his knuckles. Erik’s eyes widen in surprise, locking with Raoul’s as he sips at his cider. Christine sits besides her husband, fingers entwined in his once more.

“He will have all I create on this earth,” Erik promises, watching the pair. “Not just the music,  _ all of it _ .”

“I’d have expected nothing less,” Raoul remarks, sipping at his cider once more, a leg bouncing.


	6. Chapter 6

Meg Giry nearly runs home, desperate to  _ keep moving _ until she can confine herself to her room and  _ scream _ . Her heart is pounding, eyes still wet, and throat dry. She wants to collapse into her bed and just  _ sleep _ , but forces herself to undress first. Her heart calms and her eyes dry by the time her mother knocks to assure she’s off to bed. 

The rising sun and chilled waters bring a kind of objectivity that makes Meg Giry nearly burst into a fit of giggles as she recounts, with enough vagueness for deniability, the events of the night prior. It would not have been fair, that much was true, but to have said it all was incredibly freeing.

“My my Miss Giry, rather forward are we then?” Bernie teases as she downs her coffee. 

“No way to move forward than to  _ be  _ forward,” Meg giggles. 

“But to say to him so directly--”

“Oh he is not a man of subtlety, I  _ assure  _ you.” she counters, nearly bouncing out of the bar. 

“Good luck out there!” Bernie shouts, chuckling to himself. 

Meg takes her final bow before lunch and is halfway to her dressing room when her mother intersects. 

“There is a  _ reporter _ here,” Madame Giry warns, Meg tying her robe tighter around her. 

“ _ Here _ ?” Meg whispers, glancing about. “Why?”

“He wants to ask about  _ the number _ ,” Madame Giry beams, taking her daughter’s hand. “He’s in the Master’s office now, but he wants to speak to  _ you _ . Come now, we must be quick!” Meg lets her mother practically  _ drag  _ her to the main office, grinning all the way. 

When they enter, both men rise, Erik straightening his vest. 

“Ah, Miss Giry, just in time.” he greets, gesturing to a chair. “Mr.Arthurs was just asking about you.” Meg sits, her mother smiling more than she had in years as she closes the door. 

“Miss Giry, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” Arthurs begins, flipping a page on his notepad. “I’m writing an article about your number  _ Bathing Beauty _ , some are saying it was a political statement. Did you write the number?”

“Yes,” Meg answers giddily, glancing to Erik as he nods back towards to the reporter. “One of my favorite things to do is to swim, but I’ve noticed an increasing amount of women being kept from doing that due to  _ decency  _ laws.”

“Everyone is subject to decency laws Miss Giry, care to elaborate?” he replies, nose buried in his notes. 

“Well, a woman under arrest for the length of her skirt isn’t exactly free to go and enjoy the beach, now is she?” Meg dares, the reporter glancing up. 

“So why don’t women just adhere to the legal standard?”

“You realize how heavy skirts are, yes?” she huffs, fingers tensing in her lap. “Women are drowning in the name of  _ public decency _ ...and personally I find the corpses more distasteful than any amount of leg.” 

“Miss Giry, do you think being a  _ dancer  _ gives you the relevant experience to be making commentary pieces on laws dictated by men who study such a thing?” 

“Monsieur, I suggest that you--” Erik begins, silenced by a gesture as Meg takes a breath. 

“I think being a woman who has to live under them does,” she answers after a moment.

“And do you consider this... _ gaudy  _ display to be a  _ serious  _ political protest?”

“Well, the objective of my position here to entertain, but it can be both.” she answers firmly. 

“Do you think you’re setting a good example, of  _ stripping  _ on stage,  _ glorifying  _ this life, for the young women you’re supposedly campaigning for?” the reporter questioned.

“I think young women are perfectly capable of watching something and not immediately replicating the actions done therein...if they weren’t, we’d have many more women beating their husbands and horses.” Meg fumes politely, the reporter rising. 

“I think I have all I need, thank you Miss Giry.” Arthurs goes to shake Erik’s hand to find him stationary. “Mister Y,” 

“ _ Gangle! _ ” Erik calls, the door opening and the tallest of the trio bowing. “Show Mr.Arthurs out.”

“Of course Master,” Gangle replies, leading the man out and closing the door.

“My apologies Miss Giry, I was unaware that was his intention. I’ll call in a favor and have the piece pulled,” he offers, sighing. 

“No,  _ don’t _ .” Meg muses, nails tapping against his desk. “No press is bad press.” she takes a deep breath. “Controversy breeds curiosity.”

“I doubt he’ll have anything very  _ kind  _ to say of the performance.” Erik warns.

“I’m counting on it…” Meg contemplates for a moment before smiling. “Can I ask a favor of you?”

“Anything,” Erik replies, much too quickly for the comfort of either of them. 

“I want to do a reprise of  _ Bathing Beauty _ , but…  _ different _ . Really make the effects of men like Mr.Arthurs  _ obvious _ .” she begins, nails tapping against the desk still. “Could you take the tune from Bathing Beauty, make it... _ darker _ ?” she asks wryly, and he smiles.

“I’m sure I can manage  _ something _ ,” he promises, flourishing a gesture. “What are you thinking?”

“Something mournful. Bathing Beauty, all dressed-up,  _ head-to-toe, perfectly decent _ : drowning.” Meg answers, eyes bright as she rises. “I’ll have our draper pull something together....” she muses, pacing for a moment before stilling. “Do you think next Friday night would work? We’d only have a little over a week to do it.”

“I have no doubt that you could manage...The sooner it’s done though, the more relevance it will hold. You’ll no doubt shock the audience,” he warns, and Meg chuckles.

“I’m counting on it,” she glances to a clock. “I better be off, still haven’t eaten anything, and lunch ends in twenty minutes.” She moves towards the door. “When do you think you’ll have the revised version?” She asks, hovering in the doorway.

“Tomorrow at the latest,” he assures, smiling for a moment before sighing. “Miss Giry, about last night--”

“You needn’t worry monsieur, I can infer the apology.” she counters, nearly bouncing out into the hall. 

Her mother doesn’t bother knocking before bursting in her dressing room after the last show of the day. 

“How did it go?” she asks eagerly, Meg laughing as she tugs pins from her hair.

“It went...well,  _ enough _ .” Meg replies, her mother grasping her shoulders in excitement. “That reporter was  _ horrid _ , so disrespectful, but Mister Y and I are planning another performance next Friday.”

“ _ The master and  _ ** _you_ ** **?** ” Madame Giry gasps.

“Yes well, that reporter,  _ Mr.Arthurs _ ,  _ so rude _ , seemed intent on missing the point of  _ Bathing Beauty _ , it wasn’t just some  _ display _ . I know it was a bit  _ free _ , but there’s nothing wrong with spectacle to get the point across. So I had the idea to  _ make him _ understand it.  _ Bathing Beauty _ but as  _ proper  _ and  _ decent  _ as he wanted it to be,  _ decent into its death _ .”

“Meg!” Madame Giry explains in shock.

Meg giggles. “Oh come now Mother, the press it’ll generate for us will be worth it alone.”

“And the master approved this?”

“Quite, he said he’ll have the reworked score done by tomorrow so we can rehearse. It shouldn’t be too hard, it’s likely a lot of similar choreography.” Meg remarks, turning to her mother and smiling, about to speak when someone raps at the door. She pulls her robe further closed as the door opens. The trio enters, Doctor Gangle bowing as he offers an envelope. 

“From  _ The Vicomte _ , and Miss Daae.” he informs as Meg takes the envelope curiously. He, and the rest, disappear before she can thank them. 

“ _ The Vicomte _ ...what could he and Christine want of you?” Madame Giry asks, looking over her daughter’s shoulder as she reads. 

“They’ve decided to stay in New York...they want to take me to dinner,” Meg summarizes, grinning to herself.

“ _ Christine _ to stay  _ here _ ?” Madame Giry hisses, sighing and picking at her hand. “This cannot be  _ good _ ,”

“ _ Mother _ ,” Meg warns, rising and tucking the letter into her pocket.

“No,  _ no _ I helped raise her after her father’s death, loved her as much as you, and she left us to clean up  _ her mess _ .”

“ _ Erik is not  _ ** _her _ ** _ mess _ ,” Meg insists, her mother eyeing her suspiciously. 

“She betrayed  _ us _ ,” she whispers, looking to the mirror. 

“It isn’t traitorous to chase your own happiness,” Meg sighs.

“You have  _ not  _ spent ten years getting this place to where it is to be outshone by her,” Madame Giry insists quietly and Meg frowns.

“She won’t, not this time. She isn’t even scheduled to perform...She didn’t mean to the other night, and she’ll even get to watch this time.” Meg assures, hugging her mother. “There is room enough for both of us in the world,” she whispers, and almost believes it. 

  
  
  


The dinner club the pair had selected was quiet, private, and Christine had sighed in relief when the matradee assured her no press was admitted. The three of them were dressed in their best, Christine’s eyes brightening when Meg finally arrived.

“Sorry about the wait, had to change.” Meg explains, Raoul rising as she enters. 

“Miss Giry,” he greets warmly. 

“ _ Meg _ ,” Christine sighs pleasantly, fingers playing at the stem of her wine glass. “It’s been  _ ages _ ,”

“You’re telling me,” Meg chuckles, taking a seat. “I was glad for the invitation, I have  _ news _ .”

“Oh?” Christine prompts, drinking.

“A reporter came today, asked some questions about  _ the performance _ .” Meg begins, mouthing a thank you as a waiter pours her a glass of her own. “ _ Not very nice _ , but I’m working on a reprise of  _ Bathing Beauty  _ for next Friday. Did you hear about that heiress who drowned?”

“I read about it this morning, terribly tragic.” Christine answers, glancing to Raoul. 

“Well, it’s like that. The decency laws are killing people, and that reporter,  _ Mr.Arthurs _ , was so  _ glib _ about it. So-- well, I won’t give too much of it away, but suffice to say he’ll  _ have to  _ face the consequences of men like him whether he likes it or not.” Meg concludes, Raoul smiling and raising his glass.

“To your new number then!” he toasts, Christine and Meg giggling alike as the glasses chime.

“What are we having tonight Vicomte?” Meg asks, sipping her wine.

“ _ Lemonade _ ,” he answers dryly. “Christine and I are searching for a new residence tomorrow and I don’t think I could last an hour of it with as  _ horrid  _ a headache as I’ve been waking with lately.”

“Oh how exciting!” Meg cheers, nearly buzzing.

“ _ Hardly _ ,” Raoul huffs with a sigh. “I’ve no idea how Gustave is going to manage half a day without going mad in boredom.”

“We need to find a school for him as well,” Christine remarks. 

“Well, I can’t help on that front, but I can watch him for you tomorrow if you’d like?” Meg offers. “Or however long it takes to find an apartment or townhouse.”

“Are you sure? Won’t you be in rehearsals for your new number?” Christine asks.

“Well,  _ yes _ , but he seemed to like the place last time he was there. He’s fascinated with the business. He can watch, the girls think he’s adorable.” Meg explains casually. 

“If you’re sure he won’t distract from your work--” Raoul begins before Meg interrupts.

“He won’t, and even if he does I’ll just...stick him in the prop closet, like Christine used to do to me when we were girls.” Meg replies, Christine feigning offense. 

“You  _ wanted  _ to be in there. I’d close the door and you’d burst out minutes later with a sword and feather and steal candies from my pockets like you were Robin Hood!” Christine chuckles, eyes sparkling as Raoul laughs.

“I quite distinctly remember being  _ gifted  _ the candies for my  _ services _ .” Meg argues half-heartedly.

“Oh... _ perhaps _ .” Christine concedes, then clearing her throat. “Raoul told me about your performance, very  _ modern _ .”

“Oh, you needn’t contain yourself Christine. Everyone says it’s rather  _ modern _ . If I’d tolerate anyone’s  _ true feelings  _ on it, it’d be yours.”

“Well it’s just...when did  _ Meg Giry  _ learn to dance  _ like that _ ?” Christine asks softly, grinning still. 

“That’s the thing about this city, spend enough time here, and you will too.” Meg smiles, glancing about before continuing. “Don’t tell Mother, but sometimes I’ll venture out to the clubs downtown, you should  _ see  _ the way they dance and  _ the music _ . Rarely have I heard more heart and soul in a voice than late at night downtown… oddly enough, they always reminded me of  _ you _ .”

“You’ll have to show us the best ones,” Christine marvels. 


	7. Chapter 7

Meg is in the middle of warm-ups when Gustave barrels into her.

“Gustave  _ slow down _ !” Christine shouts, running after her son in as dignified a manner as possible, her husband trailing behind her. 

Gustave hugs Meg’s legs. “Good morning Miss Giry!” 

“Good morning little vicomte!” Meg chuckles, kneeling down to hug him properly. “You’re rather chipper this morning.”

“Mother said I got to spend the day here, with you!” he beams, his father ruffling his hair.

“Promise to behave for Miss Giry now, she’s an old friend.” Raoul orders affectionately. 

“I will!” Gustave giggles, Meg rising as Gustave releases her. 

“We’ll be back by six at the latest,” Christine explains, embracing her dearest old friend, eyes squeezed shut until they pull away. 

“Let us know if he’s any trouble,” Raoul says, taking his wife’s hand. 

“I’m sure he won’t be...Now,  _ off with you _ , I’ve got rehearsals and can’t stand any distractions.” Meg teases, hugging Christine before waving them off. 

“What now Miss Giry?” Gustave asks as she approaches the bar. 

“Well, the girls and I are warming up for our first show. Would you like to join us?” She asks, Gustave eagerly standing behind her at the bar and nodding. “Alright then, we’ll start with heel-raises,” she instructs, the young vicomte mirroring every movement with a fumbling accuracy. 

The other dancers stifle giggles unsuccessfully until their matron, Madame Giry, enters. Her eyes dance from the young vicomte to her daughter and back before taking her place at the front.

“I see we’ve a guest today...does the young victomte wish to be a  _ dancer _ ?” Madame Giry asks, rapping her staff against the floor as the dancers focus on their warmups. 

“I don’t know, but it seems like fun!” Gustave cheers, and Madame Giry’s serious expression melts for a moment before hardening again.

“Well then, follow Meg’s lead, and work on your technique  _ petit monsieur _ , it is  _ abhorrent. _ ” She instructs.

“Thanks Miss-- or,  _ Madame  _ Giry!”

Madame Giry smiles. “Well he  _ certainly  _ is more  _ appreciative  _ than his father,” she remarks offhand, and Meg mouths a shocked  _ mother _ before focusing once more on her exercises. Gustave succeeds at his own with all the grace one would expect of a ten year old without experience, but charms the dancers nonetheless. 

They glide through their first show of the day and return to find the rehearsal pianist already running through the revised scoring for  _ Bathing Beauty _ . Madame Giry squints through her glasses as she takes notes and asks the pianist to repeat certain sections. 

“Didn’t you already do this one?” Gustave asks as the pianists replays a section. 

“Yes, but we’re doing a reprise.” Meg begins, crouching to his height. “There are some very cruel men who think they define art, and some even crueler who think that women are  _ disposable _ . We’re going to prove them wrong...or at least make them feel very silly for being wrong.”

Gustave considers her explanation for a moment. “Neat!” he concludes, running over to the piano.

“Any ideas?” Meg asks, her mother approaching. 

“There’s a section towards the end where the  _ Bathing Beauty  _ motiff loops quicker and quicker the further down she sinks. I was thinking a series of pump turns as it crescendos. The idea is that she’s drowning, yes?” Madame Giry asks softly, glancing over her notes.

“Precisely. I like the pump turns, perhaps we could have the costume designers fix us something that would lift with enough air...Lace or gauze, so when I spin it looks like I’m floating… Or perhaps,” Meg lifts a page of her mother’s notepad. “Before the turns begin, we could have ribbons, or something like that, attached to the bodice. Blue ones,  _ long  _ ones held by one of the stagehands that wrap around and around me until the  _ drop _ ,” Meg turns to the pianist, who had occupied herself with entertaining the young vicomte. “Can you play the crescendo into the drop again?” she asks, musing over the piece as it plays. “Yes...yes, that’s it! Pump turns,  _ faster and faster _ , the sea winding more and more around me, the ribbons  _ choking  _ me until I  _ drop _ !”

“You don’t think it will be too... _ intense  _ for Phantasma’s audience?” 

Meg shakes her head. “No, or at least-- at least I don’t think it will matter if it is. If it shocks them,  _ good _ . No one should just be some faceless, bloated corpse. Besides, it’s a one-night occurrence, so I can’t imagine it will drive down ticket sales. If anything, the controversy will help during the off-season.”

Madame Giry regards her daughter for a moment, taking her hand and squeezing it reassuringly. “Then we’ve work to do.” she releases her, gesturing to the pianist. “From the top, we’ve only an hour till the next performance, and I want to see progress ladies.”

Lunch brings the end of their third performance for the day and the beginning of Gustave’s laundry list of questions, first of which being--

“What are we eating?” the young vicomte asks as Meg pins her hair up. 

“There’s a deli a short walk from here, you don’t mind sandwiches, do you?”

“No sandwiches are fine,” he replies wistfully, swinging his legs from the bench he sat upon. “Do you work for Mister Y?” 

Meg pauses, turning to Gustave fully and considering his question. “In a way, yes.”

“Is he still mad at me for screaming? I didn’t mean to, he just surprised me…” he asks sadly.

“Oh Gustave, I don’t think Mister Y could ever be angry with  _ you _ ...but I think you did hurt his feelings.” Meg replies, Gustave staring at his shoes.

“I didn’t mean to,” he defends. 

“Whether you meant to or not doesn’t matter, you still did.” she sighs, pulling her purse from a drawer in her vanity. “But when you hurt people, you apologize.”

“You sure he won’t be angry?” Gustave asks as Meg takes his hand. 

“Certain,” she assures as they walk. “You know, part of growing up is realizing when you’ve hurt people and when they’ve hurt you, and dealing with that.”

“I don’t really like growing up, Father says I’ll have to inherit the title one day...I don’t know if I want to be a  _ vicomte _ .” Gustave mutters.

“Growing up isn’t as terrible as it seems, and people are rarely ever  _ one thing _ .” Meg remarks as they cross the street. “I’m not just a dancer, I’m also a singer and a daughter and a friend--”

“Mother always said you were a nice friend,”

“And what do you think?” Meg chuckles.

“I think you’re very grown up,” Gustave answers honestly. “You seem to know lots of stuff, and you don’t whisper like the other dancers do.”

“What do you mean by whisper?” Meg asks as she opens the deli door. “I can whisper  _ very well _ ,” she stage whispers.

Gustave giggles. “Not like that! They all whisper to each other, they don’t think I’m smart enough to know what they’re talking about.” he huffs as the pair lingers back, looking to the menu. 

“You’re plenty smart Gustave,” Meg assures with a sigh. “Sometimes people just don’t see that...sometimes people only see what they want to.” 

Gustave had gobbled down his sandwich and half a pickle without care and was rewarded with a lemon candy that he was still sucking on when he and Meg arrived once more at Phantasma. 

“Since you work here, does that mean you can ride whatever rides you want for free?” Gustave asks as they pass through the gates and duck into the employee paths and tunnels. 

“I suppose so, I’ve never thought to take advantage of it.” Meg answers as they pass the trio, Doctor Gangle tipping his hat to the pair. 

“Are you really  _ that  _ busy?” 

“Sometimes,”

“Could you still teach me how to swim?” he mutters lowly, and Meg pauses. 

“You know what?” Meg begins, stopping before her dressing room. “I’ll take this Sunday off and you, me, and your parents can go to the beach and I can teach you how to swim?”

“Oh really?” Gustave exclaims, hugging her. 

Meg chuckles. “Yes  _ really _ .” she assures, ruffling his hair. The boy releases her, and she glances up to find--

“Miss Giry,” Erik greets, bowing awkwardly. “And the young vicomte…” his eyes dance from Gustave back to Meg.

“Mister Y, the de Chagnys are busy today and I promised to watch over Gustave. I hope that isn’t a problem?” Meg asks, straightening her posture. 

“No no, not at all. I trust in your ability to watch after the boy and do your job...speaking of which, how are rehearsals coming along?” 

“Fine, as well as one would expect for the first day. I’ll be speaking with the costume department later today.” 

“Good...that’s,  _ good _ . I take it the scoring was sufficient then?”

“Perfect,” she replies aptly, then glancing to Gustave and clearing her throat. “Remember what we talked about?” she prompts, glancing back to Erik as the boy approaches. 

“Hi Mister Y...I’m real sorry about screaming the other day, I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. Can we still be friends?” Gustave asks timidly, staring at his shoes. Erik inhales sharply, glancing once more from the boy to Meg. Meg smiles, nodding to the boy as Erik kneels to his height. 

“Of course,” he answers as neutrally as he can manage, though his voice still breaks. 

“Oh thanks Mister Y!” Gustave cheers, rushing forward and embracing the man before either adult could react. Erik freezes for a moment, staring blankly forward in disbelief, before hugging him back. A lifetime of lost love escapes him all at once, and he mouths a  _ thank you _ to Meg as they part. 

“Come along then, we’ve still got two shows and rehearsals till six.” Meg instructs, the boy taking her hand instinctively. 

“Bye Mister Y!” Gustave waves as Meg pulls towards their rehearsal space. Erik watches them, frozen in his spot in the hall, before disappearing once more.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> consistently updating? haven't heard of her

Meg returns and finds her mother leading the dancers through a modified choreography. The pianist plays along, her mother tapping out the counts with her cane. Her mother spots her, gesturing to the other dancers to continue before meeting her. 

“You’re back, good. We were just heading into the crescendo of the piece.” Madame Giry instructs, Meg pulling off her coat and taking her place in front of the dancers as Gustave sits beside the pianist. 

Meg blends into the choreography seamlessly as the pianist speeds, the dancers drifting further from her as she turns, again and again, until the song halts. She drops then, landing much too hard on her knees, before collapsing dramatically. The pianist finishes the piece quietly as the dancers mimic the horrors of finding their  _ bathing beauty  _ drowned. Madame Giry raps her cane against the floor as one of the dancers offers Meg a hand to rise. 

“You’re rusty, no grace in your landing,” Madame Giry scorns, kneeling beside her daughter as she examines her battered knees. “Go lick your wounds, I’ll go over the choreography with the girls.” she instructs as Meg rises, alone. 

“I can do it,” Meg insists, glancing about to the other dancers.

“I’m sure you will, but you will be no good if your knees give out,” Madame Giry argues.

“Mother--”

“Go, talk to the draper about your costume, and keep that boy from wandering.” 

Meg sighs, but obeys, taking Gustave’s hand as she limps slightly. Gustave follows along well enough, not pulling her forward as he usually would. The seamstress is at work when they enter, and she doesn’t bother speaking when Meg implores as to the whereabouts of the costume mistress, simply nodding silently with a mouthful of pins. Gustave glances about in wonder as they cross the shop, eyes drawn to glittering bodices and sunken black capes.

“Miss Giry, the master informed me you’ve a new performance set for next Friday?” the costume mistress greets from behind her beadwork. “Intent on whitening poor Martha’s hair, are we?”

“My apologies for the short notice, but I only need one of the costumes remade,” Meg assures, pulling the dotted swimsuit from one of the racks. “This pattern, but everything from ankle to wrist covered.”

“So I’ve heard, any other requests?” the costume mistress asks, looking over the piece. 

“Well...I was wondering if we could wind up ribbons under some of the skirts.” 

“I mean, it can be done, but are you really that intent on it?”

“The idea is that during the climax of the number, they would come undone and wrap around me as I danced. They’re supposed to look like water, like... _ drowning _ .” Meg explains.

“Oh, then you don’t want ribbons, you want gauze, maybe even silk, and not clean strips but ragged torn edges that will catch the light like waves,” she advises. Meg’s eyes lighten up at the prospect, and the costume mistress smiles. “Can’t imagine any changes in size since we last did this?”

“None,”

“Alright, off with you then, I can’t stand for distractions,” she remarks, chuckling to herself and ruffling Gustave’s hair. 

“Can’t we stay in here?” Gustave whines. “I saw coats and masks and cloaks, even  _ a pirate hat _ !” 

“I’m afraid not,” Meg answers honestly, the costume mistress rolling her eyes in amusement and gesturing towards the back of the shop. “Although...perhaps we could pick you out  _ one thing _ to wear, just while you’re here.”

“Oh  _ really _ ?” Gustave cheers, running towards the back and pulling out pieces as he decides. 

“Slow down  _ little vicomte _ , I’m supposed to be  _ resting  _ you know,” Meg warns, though fruitlessly as the boy zips about. 

He eventually settles on an old, tattered cape  _ much too big  _ on him, and positions himself at Meg’s side, taking her hand once more. “I think I’d like to work here,  _ one day _ ,” he muses, and Meg swallows a lump in her throat. 

“I’m sure you’ll get to,” she replies, ever the performer (and former Parisian) she was, managing to mask her bitterness. 

Raoul and Christine look exhausted when they arrive to retrieve their son, but they dote upon him nonetheless.

“Any luck?” Meg asks, dressed for the evening and desperate to leave.

“None,” Raoul answers, hugging his son and ruffling the boy’s hair. “The nerve of these people to charge what they do, and the  _ style  _ of some of these places!”

“We’ll have to keep looking. Besides, none of the townhouses we looked at were near a good school.” Christine adds, Gustave grasping her hand. 

“School? But can’t you just tutor me like you always would Mama?” Gustave asks, peering up at her.

“You’re getting older, Gustave, too old for your little mama to be teaching you,” Christine explains, Gustave pouting. 

“Well, will he be back tomorrow then?” Meg asks.

“Yes, as long as it isn’t a bother,” Christine replies, smiling to her son. 

“Oh no, not at all, he’s a wonder to have.” Meg assures. 

“Miss Giry said that she would take Sunday off to teach me how to swim!” Gustave announces loudly, and Meg sighs.

“Oh...did she?” Raoul asks, glancing to Meg. 

“I did, as long as that’s alright.” Meg answers, eyeing Gustave, the boy giggling.

“Of course,” Christine replies. “We’ll make a day of it, it will be nice to spend some time in the sun.”

“Wonderful,” Meg beams as her dancers spot Christine, crowding around her like they did when she first arrived so many days ago. Meg shrinks into the background as they fawn over the couple, complimenting Gustave and begging Christine for tips. That little voice at the back of her head, the one that  _ sounds  _ like her mother but  _ isn’t  _ mocks her. Says this is what  _ always  _ will happen so long as Christine remains, says she isn’t  _ needed _ , much less  _ wanted _ . She festers in its cruel insistence until her mother tugs at her hand. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow then,” Meg mutters, letting her mother pull her away from the scene. “Any progress on the number?” Meg asks as her mother shuts the door of her dressing room. 

“It is coming along well,” she answers as Meg sinks into her vanity chair. “But we have a problem: one of the girls, that  _ Margerie _ , is intent upon leaving us. She and the stage manager are getting married, she’s  _ pregnant _ .” 

“Surely she can manage to stay on till the number next week?” Meg huffs, rubbing at her tired eyes.

“She promised to stay on till then, said she wanted to see through with your number, but they seem very excited to settle down.” Madame Giry sighs. 

“I’ll speak to the Master about it--”

“No, you go home and rest. I’ll talk to him.” she insists. 

  
  
  


“Doctor Gangle said you had called for me,” Erik announces as he enters Madame Giry’s office. She goes to put out her cigarette, but he gestures against it. 

“Yes, we’ve some matters of significance to discuss.” she answers, waving to a chair and closing her eyes for a moment. “One of our girls is leaving us,”

“Oh,” Erik sighs, thinking for a moment. “Well, send her off with her severance package...do the other girls know yet?”

“Just Meg.” 

“Well, if when they find out they want to have some gathering after-hours, then I would not be opposed,” he offers softly. Erik was unsure of the proper etiquette of the situation, as he was of the proper etiquette of many situations, but he made a promise to himself when he and the Girys had built  _ Phantasma _ that it wouldn’t be like the traveling fairs of his adolescence, and later  _ adulthood _ . No, let those he employ whisper terrible rumors of him, let them despise him if they must, but Phantasma would be their home, should they need it, and should they leave it… Well, they should take fond memories and enough money to make a new start elsewhere. 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Madame Giry takes another pull off her cigarette and continues. “That  _ boy _ was here today.”

“I take it he caused no trouble?” Erik inquires carefully.

“No, none. Less than his  _ father _ , at least,” Madame Giry remarks.

Erik grips at her desk with a restrained intensity as he speaks. “His  _ father _ \--” he begins to ask.

“Ah yes  _ the Viscount _ . I give him advice, help he and his wife get together, and what do I get in return? A wedding invitation? An inquiry about my health after  _ ten years _ ? No,  _ nothing _ . He could have at  _ least  _ sent a card,” Madame Giry interrupts, smiling as Erik’s eyes widen.

“ _ Madame Giry, _ what do you know?” Erik demands in a polite tone. 

“These walls have ears,  _ Monsieur _ . I must say though, the resemblance is disappointingly absent.” 

“I would not curse my worst of enemies with this--”

“I joke, of course, I must. How else should I manage the prospect that my child and I labored ten years for this place, and it shall all go to that  _ boy _ ,” Madame Giry huffs, and Erik tenses. 

“You will get your due, I  _ assure you _ that,” he utters after a moment.

“There is nothing that can repay what my child has done for this place. Never have I begrudged you help, not even when you went too far...I had not thought I had been instilling that habit in my child... you promised me she would marry an emperor, and now I near my years of death and she is unwed and unhappy and little here,” Madame Giry continues, pressing the cigarette to her lips in frustration. 

“I know,” Erik says after a moment of silence. “And I am sorry, but he is my child-- he’s  _ mine _ , and there is nothing I wouldn’t do for him.”

“I understand,” Madame Giry sighs. “But I will not forgive the position you have left us in.” 

“Nor could I expect you to… Miss Giry is worthy of more than mere emperors and be it within my power I will see to it that her position here be worthy of her. And you will see to it that none of what you know escape this room.”

“I am aging, not foolish,  _ monsieur _ ,” Madame Giry assures, gesturing towards the door.

Were it not for the rise and fall of his little chest, Gustave would look nearly dead in the stillness of his sleep. Raoul checks in on him once more before pulling on his coat. 

“Are you certain you want me present for all of…  _ this _ ?” Raoul asks softly as Christine pulls on her gloves.

“Of course,” she answers just as softly, stepping towards him and taking his hand. “Together, like we promised.” she assures as she pulls him towards the door. 

They’ve yet to knock before the door creeps open, Erik standing before them in an ornate Mandarin robe tied over a somewhat casual ensemble for what was about to occur. He offers a hand to Christine, and she takes it gladly, gliding into the dim room.

When Raoul enters, he is uncomfortably aware of the sound his shoes make against the polished mahogany floors. The curtains are drawn and not a beam of moonlight pierces through them. Candles are strewn about, congregating in clusters around the grand piano Erik had covered in sheet music. Raoul’s hands itch for a glass, or perhaps itch to meet the level of his eye, but he keeps them at his sides regardless. He hovers in the doorway for just a moment too long before Erik’s eyes beckon him further into the dark penthouse. 

“Christine tells me you’re working on a new opera?” Raoul asks, immediately regretting his question as his voice breaks an almost icy silence. He feels too loud and mouse-ish all at once, like he’s shouted a cowardly question. 

Erik replies with all the smooth temperament of the same demons Raoul had once accused him of being. “Yes,  _ Masque of the Red Death _ . Are you familiar with the original work, Monsieur?” 

His question burns into the back of Raoul’s mind, burns in that same primitive place where Raoul had first encountered  _ the Phantom  _ within his own reality. Where his sublime voice had first graced Raoul’s senses proper in the red heat of the  _ masquerade _ . “Vaguely, though I must confess I’ve never read it in its entirety.” Raoul answers after a moment, eyes flitting from Erik’s to Christine’s.

“Yes, well, he’s made some changes anyway, so I suppose I’m as unfamiliar with the story as you are.” Christine assures, adjusting her posture as she approaches the piano. “Perhaps we should demonstrate one of the numbers?”

Erik eyes Raoul for a moment before finally sitting at the piano. “Do keep in mind that this is a work in progress,  _ Vicomte _ , and that Miss Daaé has yet to warm up,” Erik mutters as he focuses on the sheet music before him. He gives Christine her starting chord, waits a moment, and  _ begins _ . 

Raoul isn’t sure what bothers him more, his own compared incompetence, or the way  _ his wife  _ completely melts into  _ Mister Y’s  _ music. The pair move in sync with one another. She holds a note out just a moment longer and so too does he. He shortens a rest and it’s like she can  _ feel it  _ as it happens. At times, he plays with one hand and conducts her with the other and it’s almost as though there are strings running from his fingertips to her wrists. 

Raoul backs away from the scene, fingers tense as he runs them through his hair. Neither his wife nor her puppetmaster notice when bumps into a lamp much more expensive than anything he’s been capable of affording for half a decade. It crashes to the ground, and Erik glances to him for not a moment before focusing once more on Christine. Christine, entranced as she is, notices not as she sings. Raoul’s chest tightens as Erik conducts Christine through her final measure. Raoul’s breaths grow shallower as Christine’s grow deeper, the trained breathing of an opera singer, and it’s not until Erik’s hands still completely against the keys that she finally awakens, if not momentarily, to find the mess Raoul has made in the meantime. 

Raoul stumbles back further, eyes refusing to meet either of the others and jaw trembling as he tries to control his shaking. 

“Monsieur?” Erik asks softly, stepping away from the piano. “Vicomte, calm down,” he continues, stepping towards Raoul. 

Raoul backs away, hand at eye-level as he glances desperately to Christine. “Don’t!” he sputters, eyes watering as his breath shortens further. 

“Raoul!” Christine calls, and that almost calms him until he meets her eyes, still nearly glossy under  _ The Phantom’s  _ influence. 

“ _ Vicomte, just breathe,”  _ Erik coos softly, approaching Raoul slowly with his hands up. “ _ It’s all right.” _

“No…  _ no _ ,” Raoul mutters, trying to calm his breathing but failing. “I can’t do this,” he whispers, running a tense hand through his hair once more and grasping at it. “ _ Christine I’m sorry, but I can’t do this _ .” he utters as surely and evenly as he can. “I can’t be here-- I can’t do this,” he whispers, eye’s flitting to the door nervously before he makes his escape. Erik almost stops him, almost grasps his shoulders and forces him to sit down and just  _ breathe _ but doesn’t. 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> longer chapter bc of the wait also please keep commenting it's the only thing that reminds me to work on this beauty

He’s lucky that it’s Meg that answers the door and not her mother. 

“Vicomte, what are you doing here at this hour?” Meg asks, pulling her robe more tightly around her.

“Fancy a drink?” he asks apathetically, hair still mussed from his panic earlier. “I’d hate to take your spot without you.”

“What…  _ happened _ ?” Meg asks, stepping into the hall and closing the door.

“I promised to follow her  _ anywhere _ and I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t stand it, the way he  _ affects  _ her. It’s not even jealousy, or  _ maybe  _ it is, but it’s more than jealousy and I can’t do it… Not even for  _ her _ .” Raoul trembles.

“Call a carriage and give me five minutes,” Meg replies after a moment of thought. 

“The pier is just a brief walk, Miss Giry.” 

“To hell with drinking alone tonight. If we’re to drown our sorrows, let us do it in grander company than just two  _ dear old friends _ ,” Meg insists, fretting with the cuff of her robe. “There’s a place I’ve been dying to share with someone.”

Raoul almost grins despite his state. “A carriage it is. Meet me outside then,  _ Miss Giry _ ?” Raoul confirms, forcing himself to embody the charming vicomte once more, if not just to humor the woman he would be burdening with his problems. 

When Meg Giry exits her apartment building, blush colors her cheeks and shadow her eyes. Raoul smiles, opening the door to the carriage for her and closing it behind him as he enters. 

“Where to?” the driver asks. 

“The Timber Club,” Meg replies brightly, the driver then turning his attention back to the road as the carriage pulls forward. After she’s sure the driver’s no longer listening to the pair, she turns towards Raoul. “I take it you went with her while he was…  _ composing _ ?” Meg asks.

Raoul breathes in sharply, the mask of_ the_ _charming Vicomte _slipping. “It’s like she’s a puppet when they’re together. He conducts and she follows, but it’s more than that. Every word, every _note _was his, I’m sure, but they were so imbued with _her _that it _cannot _be possible he’s controlling her completely. They’re connected, the two of them, connected in a way I’ve never connected with her. It’s magical…or perhaps, _some kind of curse_. I understand it in some way, the way she can so easily give into his requests, and it isn’t as though they’re terrible requests it’s just a _song_, but the way he speaks, the way he _moves_… and I’m just entirely separate from it. I am there, but they hardly sense me.” Raoul sighs, glancing to Meg as she contemplates his, or if she were to be honest with herself, _their_ situation. 

“Perhaps,” Meg begins after a long silence filled only with the trotting of the horses, “your promise to her is not to follow her into heaven, but to be there when she descends back to earth.” She takes his hand and squeezes it reassuringly. “And… if it makes you feel any better, I am a damn good dancer and singer and I don’t have that with either of them. I worked with Christine for years and never  _ conducted  _ her and I worked with Mister Y for years and was never…  _ conducted _ ,” she adds, and Raoul can’t help the ugly laugh that bursts from within him. “So, your lack of musical talent has little to do with the situation.”

“And how would you know of my musical talent,  _ Miss Giry _ ?” he asks, chuckling to himself despite their circumstances. 

“Oh, Christine was sure to regale me with tales of your adventures on the violin. Taught by the world’s greatest violinist and still couldn’t play  _ Ode to Joy _ .” Meg giggles.

“Ah. All true, I assure you, but did you know Christine is  _ terrible _ at…” Raoul begins before trailing off. 

“I am waiting at the edge of my seat, Monsieur,” Meg teases.

“Honestly, I do not know. She’s wonderful at everything and I can’t manage my promises to her no matter how I try. Perhaps she’s terrible at choosing men to share her life with.”

“Come now, Vicomte, don’t go insulting my taste,” Meg teases once more, but less lightheartedly.

“Worry not, Miss Giry, I speak only of myself.”

“I know.” After a moment, Meg adds softly, “I rather like you Vicomte, I think we’re well suited to one another’s company.”

“We are, aren’t we?” Raoul chuckles. “A perfect match in an imperfect world.” 

“Mother wanted me to marry an emperor,” Meg adds.

“And a  _ vicomte _ isn’t half bad, not for a dancer. Though I suppose one with more money and better habits would suit you better.” 

“No, no, you mistake me, Monsieur; the money troubles and drinking problems are what would bring you down enough to marry a lowly dancer,” Meg quips, laughing to herself. 

“Oh, of course, I forgot all about  _ propriety  _ for a moment. How silly of me,” Raoul counters, matching her jovial tone. “You really are a wonder, Miss Giry. I can see why she values your friendship so.”

“Does she now?” Meg asks softly.

“She speaks of you quite fondly, regrets that you were too ill to make the wedding. She wanted to visit you after our honeymoon, but then she was pregnant with Gustave and couldn’t travel and then we were both so busy with the baby...and then the drinking began and… Well, time gets away from you, I suppose,” Raoul finishes lamely. 

“I had always meant to send a letter, a card…  _ something _ , but it’s like you said,” Meg trails off. They sit in silence for a few moments before her eyes brighten. “ _ The Timber! _ ” she exclaims softly as they approach. The carriage eventually comes to a stop, and Raoul hands the driver a few coins before opening the door and offering Meg his hand. Meg pulls him towards the entrance, Raoul making out moving figures through the dimly lit colored glass of the windows. “Come now Vicomte, when was the last time you  _ danced _ ?” 

“I should think my wedding, if I’m to be very honest.” he confesses, letting her lead him through the crowds of people until she settles on a spot near the stage. “Though I suppose I’ve never danced like this,” Raoul confesses, glancing about to the utterly unstructured mass of couples.

“I’m sure you’ll pick it up rather quickly,” Meg replies, glancing to the lead singer and smiling. “And you’re lucky,  _ she  _ doesn’t perform every night.”

“A favorite of yours then?” Raoul asks, positioning himself to dance as the band begins another song.

“Quite, she’s  _ marvelous _ . Sometimes I’ll come here alone, refuse all partners, and just  _ listen _ .” Meg sighs wistfully, glancing from Raoul to the singer.

“I must confess I am unfamiliar with this kind of music, but it seems to please you,” Raoul says lowly, taking care as not to step on Meg’s toes.

“Quite greatly, you’ll find all kinds of music being invented in this city. Some say it came from  _ New Orleans _ , but I think Miss Kitty is inventing something entirely of her own here,” Meg replies enthusiastically as the pace quickens. 

“Hardly the kind of dancing one can acquaint themselves with their partner to,” Raoul mutters as his breath quickens. 

“Acquaintance is hardly the point,” Meg counters, her skirts floating in the breeze created by the quickness of her step.

“Then pray, do tell what is,” Raoul teases, much too focused on keeping up with his partner to wallow in his own melancholy. 

“Excitement, I suppose,” Meg answers, eyes bright and cheeks flushed as she twirls. Raoul laughs in delight, pulling her back before she can crash into another couple. “You should bring Christine here.”

“Perhaps, though I’m unsure if it would suit her temperament,” Raoul concedes as the song ends. 

“You’d be surprised what suited her temperament when we were younger,” Meg counters.

Raoul quirks a brow. “Care to regale me with whatever such tales as we get a drink? I’m positively parched.” 

“Certainly, though you may be interested in improving your stamina,” Meg teases as she leads him to the bar.

“I assure you my stamina is in no need of improvement,  _ madam _ ,” Raoul replies, turning his attention to the barkeep. “I’ll have a…” he trails off, looking over the listing. “ _ Tom Collins _ , and the lady will have--” 

“The same,” Meg answers, without looking. “Going outside our comfort zone, are we, Vicomte?”

“Indeed. I rarely find the need to water down my drinks, but if I’m too keep up with  _ you _ …” 

“ _ Meg… Giry _ ?” a man asks from just across the bar. “The  _ Ooh-la-la _ girl?” he continues, nearing the pair as a woman trails behind him.

“The same, and you are?” Meg asks brightly, though Raoul can tell from her eyes the caution with which she approaches him.

“Charles Harrison, but my friends call me Charlie,” he replies with all the excitement of a golden retriever, and all the patience of one too. “And this is my fiancée, Miss Emma Moore.” The woman approaches, eyeing her fiancé as she offers Raoul her hand hesitantly. “And your  _ friend  _ is?”

“Ah, right, my  _ friend _ . Allow me to introduce Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny,” Meg answers in a perfectly cultured French accent. 

“A  _ Vicomte _ !” Emma exclaims as Raoul kisses the back of her hand.

“Quite,” Meg chuckles, turning her attention back to Charles. “Mr. Harrison, forgive my intrusion, but your name sounds rather familiar. You wouldn’t happen to be related to the grand newspaper magnate, Mr. Edwin Harrison?”

“My brother,” Charles answers, eyes wandering to Meg’s lips for a moment. “I caught your last performance, that  _ Bathing Beauty _ . Quite the statement. I begged my brother to write about it, but he’d rather focus on coal prices and  _ molasses _ .” He laughs, and Meg matches his tone and temperament. 

“Well, lucky for him, we’re doing it again this Friday. Perhaps our  _ improvements  _ will catch his attention.”

“I’ll make sure they do,  _ Miss Giry _ .” 

“I’ll reserve you and your fiancée a few seats, then; it’s going to be  _ quite the show _ ,” Meg offers, glancing to Raoul, who had found himself busy with entertaining the illustrious Miss Moore. 

“That’s quite kind of you. Would you allow me the honor of this dance?” Charles asks as Meg sips at her drink.

“Certainly. I’m quite sure your Miss Moore will find herself capable of entertaining the Vicomte till our return.”

“Miss Moore is not anything, if entertaining.”

“I find I must agree,” Meg giggles lightly. “Raoul!” she calls out, the Vicomte snapping his attention back to her. “Be a gentleman and ask Miss Moore to dance, I’m finding myself quite occupied with  _ Charlie _ .”

“Certainly,” Raoul calls back, offering Emma his arm as she giggles delightedly.

“What’s a girl like you hanging around someone as washed up as him?” Charles asks nearly the moment they’re on the floor.

“Come now, Charlie. Be nice, he’s an old friend of mine.” Meg replies, delighted to find Charles matching her step. “I’m simply showing him the city is all.”

“And  _ Mrs. de Chagny _ ?” Charles asks softly. 

“The  _ Vicomtesse  _ is an even older friend of mine… and she’s  _ otherwise occupied _ ,” Meg answers as Charles spins her. 

“You must be a real good friend to occupy a man of such limited stamina,” he counters, both of them spotting Raoul’s currently failing attempts at keeping up with Emma.

“He makes up for it, I  _ assure you _ ,” Meg laughs as they rise. “He’s just been a bit down lately.”

“And what a pick-me-up you must be.”

“ _ Bathing Beauty  _ in the flesh.” 

“You ever wanna be more than  _ Bathing Beauty _ ?” Charles asks, and Meg nearly stops in astonishment at the question. 

“I thought the performance went quite well.”

“Heard you used to be a ballerina. You seem to be wasting your talent with  _ Mister Y _ .”

“Perhaps you should be the one running the papers,  _ Mr. Harrison _ , since you’re so good at sneaking about,  _ digging into people’s past _ .”

“Hardly had to do any digging, you can tell by the way you dance. Ma always made me go see the ballet with her,  _ and I can see it in your every step _ ,” he whispers into her ear as the brass section began their ensemble. “I’d hate to see that kind of talent wasted opening for some stuffy  _ otherwise occupied  _ opera singer.”

“So opera singers are stuffy but ballerinas aren’t?” 

“Opera singers don’t have great legs and a temper to match.”

“ _ Mr. Harrison! _ ”

“There it is, knew it was in there somewhere.”

“And are you not  _ otherwise occupied  _ in company with your  _ fiancée _ ?”

“It would appear as though  _ my fiancée  _ is  _ otherwise occupied  _ with the company of your  _ dear old friend _ .” Charles shrugs, nodding to the dancing pair across the room. 

“He’s just being polite,” Meg scoffs.

“Oh, I’m sure,  _ with her _ … Look,  _ dance  _ with me or not, I’m still going to your performance next week regardless; I just think you’ll go a whole lot further with friends like me than  _ friends  _ like the  _ Vicomte de Chagny  _ and his wife,” Charles offers as the song ends. They separate and he bows politely as his fiancée rushes across the crowd towards them, Raoul in tow.

“Oh Charlie, the  _ Vicomte  _ is such a wonderful dancer; we simply  _ must  _ invite the de Chagnys to my birthday ball!” Emma insists, tone as bubbly as her expression as she kisses her fiancé’s cheek, then glancing to Meg. “Oh, and Miss Giry too! And Mister Y, if he’ll make it out for once. I swear, half of society extends him invitations every New Year’s out of politeness if nothing else and he hardly makes the effort to even express his refusal, much less actually _ attend _ anything.”

“For your birthday, Miss Moore, I’ll be sure he arrives and you shall be the talk of the town for  _ weeks _ ,” Meg promises, Emma giggling and taking her hands.

“Oh, you will? You simply must call me Emma, then, all my friends do and if you would do that for me you would be one of the best friends a girl could ask for!” Emma beams, and Meg can’t help but return the smile despite herself. 

“Emma it is then… May I interest you in this next dance then,  _ Emma _ ?” Meg asks, smiling brightly.

“Well to dance with someone as talented as  _ the  _ Meg Giry would bring me great pleasure. Charlie’s told me all about you, you know,” Emma boasts as Meg leads her to the dance floor. 

“Ah, then we must gossip horribly about him in return,” Meg counters charmingly.

Emma laughs. “And so we shall! You know, he’s terrible at cards.”

  
  


They pass an hour in the couple’s company before Emma and Charles bid them a goodnight, and an hour further dancing and drinking by themselves. Their choice of drink and activity keep them both in light and alert spirits, and when they finally find themselves in a carriage home, Raoul finally determines what to make of his situation.

“I think you’re right, Miss Giry. If I’m not meant to involve myself in her music so directly, perhaps it shall be better if I should simply be there when it is done for the night. She has assured me before that she is incapable of living such a way forever, and I do think her transition back to earth a better one with assistance. I’ve deprived her of so much for so long, I cannot bear the thought of depriving her anything else. I must admit though, I still find myself increasingly jealous of their connection,” he whispers after a breath on the carriage.

“You are not alone in that, believe me, Monsieur, but do keep in mind your luck: at least you have them as they have you,” Meg remarks tiredly. 

“I will, and I’m sorry about your and  _ Mister Y’s  _ situation.”

“Don’t be, if it had not been you or Christine then some other wonderful or talented person, I’m sure.”

“You’re plenty wonderful and talented Miss Giry, Mister Y is simply a very queer creature,” Raoul assures, squeezing her hand sympathetically.

“Very queer indeed,” Meg agrees softly. 

“And, even so, that Mr. Harrison seemed very taken with you, and his fiancée even more so, I must say.”

“Yes, well, powerful men have a habit of taking interest with me. I must say it is a first on account of the fiancée, though. She seems of a kind temperament. I shall have to keep Mr. Harrison at arm’s length for her sake if nothing else.” 

“Perhaps his older brother is untethered?” Raoul theorizes in a teasing manner.

“Married to his work, if I hear correctly,” Meg resigns in a sigh. 

“Ah, then any unfaithfulness you inspire in  _ him  _ shall be quite morally acceptable,” Raoul chaffs.

Meg laughs heartily as the carriage approaches her building. “You make for good company, Vicomte. Perhaps we should continue our arrangement in less  _ stressful  _ times, to say the least.”

“Perhaps we shall. Name the day and time and I will arrive in my best coat and temperament,” Raoul promises as the carriage stops. He exits first, holding the door open for her and offering a hand to help her down. She takes it, and he walks her inside silently before they arrive at her door. “Good night, Miss Giry. May the rest of your evening find you well.”

“And yours as well, Vicomte. I’ll see you in the morning.” Meg sighs wistfully as she enters her apartment, feet falling silent.

  
  
  


Erik is still wrapped in his robe from the night previous when he hears the Vicomte approach his penthouse. He can tell from the sounds of his soles, and braces himself for a wretched mess to pound upon his door. 

He is delighted, if confused, at what he finds.

“Good morning, Mister Y,” Raoul greets, hat in one hand and a paper bag in the other. “I assume Christine is still asleep?” 

“Yes, she is,” Erik answers softly, stepping aside. 

“Very well. I did come to retrieve her, but Gustave won’t wake for two hours at least and I do have a bit of explaining to do,” Raoul says, offering Erik the pastry bag. “And I brought croissants, fresh; Miss Giry recommended the place.”

“I… am not one for food, but thank you.” Erik eyes the Vicomte for a moment before approaching. “You appear to be in better spirits this morning,” he states, though Raoul can tell it’s an interrogation.

“I think perhaps I am not one for  _ composing _ ,” Raoul admits after a moment. “The bond you two share is not of a common variety and is furthermore one that I find myself incapable of despite our history.”

“No other creature on earth is capable of what Miss Daaé is, and no other creature occupies my thoughts or heart in the same manner,” Erik explains, sitting across from his former rival. “But I must confess that no other creature upon this earth is so capable of interrupting our… _ bond _ , save for you,  _ Vicomte _ . And that, more than anything, seems to have always been the case, even when I was young and foolish enough to desire otherwise.”

“ _ Mrs. Daaé _ ,” Raoul corrects half-heartedly after a moment. 

“Mrs. Daaé,” Erik agrees with the slightest hint of a smile. “I am… _ grateful  _ for your return this morning, Monsieur le Vicomte. Are you managing the…  _ circumstances  _ any better?”

“Quite a bit better,” Raoul answers, pulling out a croissant and tearing off a piece. “I’ve had some time to…  _ re-examine  _ my position here. Did you manage to make very much progress in your work last night in my absence?”

“A bit, after we managed to  _ calm _ one another after your  _ sudden exit _ . We were quite worried about you, but neither of us were sure if it would be wise to follow. We work best when…  _ uninterrupted _ , you must understand,” Erik explains softly. 

“I think I do, in some sense of the word. Perhaps it would be best if I did not intrude upon your work from now on,” Raoul suggests lowly.

“Perhaps, but I’m certain she will appreciate your being here this morning. I… certainly do.”

“I appreciate your accommodating nature.”

“Thank you, Monsieur, but I can assure you it is not by  _ nature _ , _ ”  _ Erik corrects softly.

“Well then, I appreciate it doubly, as it did not come to you naturally and yet you still chose it,” Raoul insists.

“In terms of  _ people _ , very few things come to me naturally,” Erik confesses.

“Ah yes, I know,” Raoul teases.

“ _ You  _ did, though. I think I tried to deny it, tried to justify it as jealousy or indignation at the  _ handsome young Vicomte de Chagny _ , come to whisk away my protégée, but you came to me quite naturally. Almost regretted what I thought your fate to be at the time… _ almost _ ,” Erik dares, glancing towards the closed door of his private chambers.

“Well, then let me extend my sincerest of flattery at my death nearly being regrettable. I should think that a compliment not paid to many,” Raoul chuckles softly.

“I should think I have only regretted the death of less than five people in my lifetime.”

“And quite the lifetime you have lived, Monsieur. I consider myself lucky indeed.” 

“I am not quite the old man you make me out to be,  _ Vicomte _ , and youth is not the virtue you think it,” Erik warns, glancing once more from the closed door of his private chamber to the Vicomte.

“Certainly not with how I’ve spent my years,” Raoul remarks, the same self-deprecating smile infecting his expression that he was by now accustomed to assuming around  _ Mister Y _ .

“Virtue or not,  _ Vicomte _ , there is youth within you yet; _ I assure you _ ,” Erik counters, sitting back in his chair opposite the vicomte, relaxing fully against the upholstery. 

“Perhaps you should test your theory  _ some other time  _ then Mister Y, you’ve hardly had your breakfast.”

“I don’t eat.”

“All healthy men eat.”

“I am hardly a man.”

“Well, I could hardly tell.”

“You’re quite entertaining when I don’t feel inclined to kill you.”

“Thank you, Miss Giry said much the same.”

“She must enjoy your company, then.”

“She has spectacular taste in connections,” Raoul praises, tearing off another bit of croissant and eating it fully before continuing. “Most of the time,” he then adds, taking a particular delight in how Erik’s eyes darken at that.

“Careful not to choke on your breakfast Vicomte, Miss Daaé would be  _ heartbroken _ ,” Erik warns with a sly grin.

“ _ Mrs. Daaé _ ,” Raoul corrects, taking an impolitely large bite then. “And what part of you would break,  _ Mister Y _ ?”

“What part of me do you like best,  _ Vicomte _ ?”

“I’m quite unsure, I’m very fond of so many,” Raoul answers honestly, and Erik pauses in his banter, cheeks flushing.

“And is your fondness expressed in honesty?” Erik asks, all illusions of confidence or grandeur slipping in an instant.

“Quite, dishonest fondness is a sin I find quite deplorable,” Raoul assures as seriously as he can manage, given the situation. “And perhaps we may find a time for me to express such fondness under different circumstances. I’m afraid my wife and I will be quite busy today, and I can’t imagine you would be willing to sacrifice your nights.”

“You are correct in your assertion, Monsieur, and your sober forwardness continues to amaze me. You are, as previously stated, welcome here of course, but should prefer to schedule a time to meet then I am than willing to oblige.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Raoul says, setting the pastry bag aside as a door creaks open. He turns, and finds his wife drifting from Erik’s private chambers. She holds a blanket across her shoulders, her dress rumpled from a night’s sleep. She rubs at her eyes, then spotting the pair and wandering over to them. Her eyes brighten as they focus on Raoul, and she sits beside him.

“Good morning, does  _ Little Lotte  _ wish to wake at last?” Raoul asks softly, offering her a croissant she gladly devours.

“Awake and starved, thank you dear,” she replies tiredly, and the  _ dear  _ escapes her easily. She sinks into him as she begins to wake, and Raoul finds himself remembering how they first came to be, the  _ ease _ they always had around one another from the beginning. “I take it you two have been getting along in my absence, then?” she asks after a moment.

“As well as one can expect,” Erik answers, eyes softening into a melancholy kind of jealousy at the sight of them. 


	10. Chapter 10

Meg Giry is halfway through her warm up when she hears other dancers giggling and thinks nothing of it. Christine and Raoul drop off Gustave and are on their way, thankfully, long before her mother can enter,  _ scowling _ . Gustave, excitable as ever, notices not. 

Their first few numbers feel like a blur. The crowd, for one, is nearly thrice as large as normal, and their screams and cheers of excitement at Meg’s entrance nearly stun her each time. After her second performance, people nearly board the stage trying to get her autograph, and she can hardly reach her dressing room.

She plops down on her vanity chair, wondering to herself what had gotten into the crowd, as she observes herself in the mirror. Her eyeliner is fading, and her lipstick too. She’s just on the verge of touching up when she hears a knock. 

“ _ Enter _ ,” she beckons, her tiredness bringing an apathy to her tone that she hadn’t intended. 

Erik enters, hat in hand, and glances about as though he doesn’t own the place. “Miss Giry, I was wondering if we might speak.” 

“Certainly, Mister Y,” Meg assures, glancing over her shoulder and gesturing to a stool. “Anything of particular note? It isn’t the boy, is it? I left him with the girls for a moment of solitude...”

“No, no. The little viscount is behaving himself just as well… If I am interrupting such solitude, I can return at a more convenient time,” Erik offers as Meg wets a brush.

“I think I am without convenient times these days, Monsieur. Speak away; I promise to listen.” She begins redrawing her eyeliner.

“Ah. Yes. Well, I was just curious as to your intentions after this upcoming performance? I know the Ooh-Là-Là Girls perform daily…” he trails off, watching her, enraptured, before continuing. “But I suppose I’d just like to know what you intended for your next solo performance?” he finally finishes, his eyes darting from her perfectly positioned hand, to the pot of pigment she dipped the brush in.

“Well, that depends on how far you are with your new opera then, I’d hate the have to share the stage again, so I suppose--” she pauses, catching his eye in the mirror. “What?” she asks, turning toward him, eyes widening at his flushed cheeks. “ _ Monsieur _ ?” 

“I’ve no idea how you do it,” he  _ confesses _ after a moment, tilting his head as he observes her further. “I’ve always been so intrigued by theatre makeup, the artistry of it, the  _ masks  _ performers wear, but you…I can watch you paint it on and it’s still just  _ you _ .” 

Meg smiles, eyes darting away from his before returning. “Would you like to try?” she asks softly, and she swears she can hear his heart beat in the still silence of the room. 

“Oh, Miss Giry, I doubt there is anything even a woman of your artistry could do to improve upon my own visage. Believe me,  _ I’ve tried _ .”

“I said nothing of  _ improvement _ , Monsieur, just…  _ enhancement _ ,” Meg counters, grasping his chin and drawing a fine liner across his lids, careful not to disturb the mask. She sits back, observing her work for a moment, before grabbing her lipstick and another brush. “Just a little,” she assures, Erik too shocked to object as she tints his lips the slightest shade of red. “There, properly  _ enhanced  _ now, aren’t we?” she asks, scooting back her chair to give him an opportunity to spot himself in the mirror. 

“Why Miss Giry, perhaps you are wasting your talents dancing in some foolish show,” Erik utters, eyes locked on his reflection for a moment before it becomes all too much, and he focuses them on her instead. 

“Foolish men often think such foolish things,” she chuckles. “I should think my next performance will be soon,” she adds after a moment.

“Yes, that makes sense.” Erik mutters, rising. “We’ll speak later, then; I’m sure I’ve business to attend to,” he continues, mind completely blank as his hand hovers over the doorknob. “I will wait with bated breath to see what you do with  _ our _ work,  _ Miss Giry _ .”

A chill falls over Meg Giry during her final performance, and when her eyes flit to the rafters, she swears she can see the tails of his coat. She wanders back to her dressing room in a haze, only to be interrupted by the ever-energetic young vicomte. 

“Miss Giry! Miss Giry!” he cheers, jumping up and down. “That was so wonderful! And all those people, they came to see  _ you _ ! I heard it myself.” 

“Why thank you, Gustave,” Meg smiles, aching to wash her face and get to rehearsals, but doting on the boy regardless.

“Meg Giry!” her mother calls, approaching the pair sternly. “Are you a dancer?”

“ _ Mother _ \--” Meg begins to interject before her mother silences her with a glare.

“Then go and practice!” she demands, glancing to the boy before focusing once more on her daughter. Madame Giry lowers her voice, “If you are to waste your nights, you should at least be focused in the day!”

“My…  _ nights _ ?” Meg mutters as her mother leads her and Gustave to the rehearsal space. 

Meg stews over her mother’s statements, interrupted only when the other dancers begin to giggle wildly at her entrance. Gustave, luckily, doesn’t seem to notice the change in pace as he sits beside the pianist without pause. 

“Have a good night Meg?” one of the girls asks as she stretches, the others laughing in turn until Madame Giry raps her cane against the ground. 

“I...I suppose so,” Meg answers after a moment, taking her position as the pianist begins. Meg forces herself to focus, tries to at least, but nary a moment passes without a giggle or whisper gracing her ears. Still, she presses on, desperate to master the piece, desperate to be worthy of all that is  _ his  _ bated breath, but even the pianist starts making mistakes, and it only dominoes from there. 

Arthur dropping Meg is the last straw for Madame Giry, who calls the rehearsal to an early finish, glaring at the dancers and muttering under her breath as they exit giggling. 

“We will resume rehearsals  _ tomorrow  _ when you all are  _ focused  _ and ready to work!” Madame Giry calls after a moment, huffing in frustration as Gustave wanders towards her. 

“Just as well,” Gangle comments, appearing from seemingly nowhere. “Mister Y has requested the presence of Miss Giry in his office.”

“Of course,” Madame Giry mutters, glancing to her daughter in a mix of concern and frustration. “Come now,  _ petite vicomte _ , you can play the piano in the orchestra pit.”

“Oh boy!” Gustave exclaims, bouncing with excitement as Meg follows Gangle’s lead warily. 

Erik has his back turned to the door when they enter, jacket off and sleeves rolled up as he glances over a paper Meg can’t quite make out. “Thank you Gangle, you may go.” He utters without turning, and Meg takes a seat just as Gangle shuts the door. 

“How are rehearsals coming along Miss Giry,” Erik asks, tone clipped. 

“Well enough,” Meg replies softly, craning her neck to try and read the headline of the paper he grasps tighter and tighter. “Some slip-ups, but we’ll be ready for next Friday, even without the Sunday rehearsal.”

“Why no rehearsal Sunday?” Erik demands quickly.

“It’s my day off,” Meg answers vaguely as he turns, her face paling as she reads the headline. 

** _Lovebirds Reunited? Coney Island’s Own French Beauty, Meg Giry, Spotted With The Vicomte De Chagny!_ **

“Of course, must have forgotten.” Erik mutters, sitting across from her and tossing the paper on the desk between them. “Is the Vicomte a frequent habit of yours?” he asks softly, as Meg glosses over the article. 

“My habits are none of your business,” Meg insists softly after a moment. “You made sure of that.”

“The Vicomte is,”

“ _ The Vicomte  _ can speak for himself then!” Meg bursts, silence stretching between the two for a moment before she sighs. “I don’t have to explain  _ anything _ to you.”

“ _ Miss Giry, _ ” Erik begins in  _ that  _ voice. “ _ Must I remind you who Miss Daae and The Vicomte belong to?” _

“Each other,” Meg spits, meeting his gaze as he sneers. “Or did you forget that part?”

“And to who do you belong,  _ Miss Giry _ ?” he asks after a moment of tense silence. 

Meg frowns, glancing to the paper, her teeth clenching as she reads  _ An exclusive tell-all from Charles Harrison _ ! “No one,”

“Then what, pray tell, were you and the Vicomte doing at the Timber Club?”

“You can’t demand everything of everyone--”

“I am not demanding  _ everything  _ of you I simply want to know--”

“ _ Erik! _ ” Meg interjects, Erik staring at her in astonishment. “There are people who love you  _ very much _ , but they cannot be  _ everything  _ for you, and if you demand everything of them they will kill themselves trying to  _ be  _ that.”

“Did you?” he asks softly, glancing bitterly to the paper. He shakes his head, “Is  _ he _ ?”

“No… we spoke. He hated that he couldn’t be what you wanted, what Christine  _ needed _ . He just needed to calm down and  _ think  _ and  _ not  _ drink himself to an early death alone. That’s  _ all _ , but I cannot help if the papers talk and quite frankly I won’t shut myself in in the hopes that they don’t.” Meg explains softly as Erik rises, turning away from her. 

“You didn’t answer my question,” Erik whispers after a moment. 

“I won’t go into any further detail, the Vicomte deserves his privacy--”

“ _ Did you? _ ” Erik sputters, glancing to her imploringly. 

“I don’t think it matters,” Meg confesses, meeting his gaze. 

“It matters to me, your feelings matter to me, your  _ suffering _ matters to me, I would have thought you’d have known that after--”

“Don’t! Taking care of your friend’s sick child isn’t the same thing as caring if she tears herself apart.”

“I hold a great respect for your mother, Miss Giry, but you aren’t just her daughter, not to me.”

“But you cannot care in the way I want you to,” 

“Even so, is the compassion I am capable of not then worthy of you?” He asks, then takes a breath. “Perhaps it is not, perhaps you deserve better, but it is all I can manage without ruining  _ everything _ . Would you be so kind as to accept it?” he continues, the tears that threaten at his waterline blurring his eyeliner. 

Meg smiles sadly. “Yes,” she answers simply. 

He approaches. “I’m…  _ sorry _ , Miss Giry, for my anger and my ignorance.”

Meg rises. “It’s fine,” she assures, nearing. “Are set upon making up for it?”

“Of course,” Erik sputters, mirroring her soft,  _ mischievous _ , smile.

“Good, you can start by attending a party with me.”

“Oh is that what that invitation was? I had almost thrown it out.”

“Good thing you didn’t, I promised Emma I’d get you to attend. It’s her birthday, and I’ll be making her the talk of the town.” Meg explains wistfully.

“Well, I’m not usually one to socialize with strangers, but since it’s her  _ birthday _ \--” Erik begins amusingly, interrupted as Meg laughs heartily. He stares at her for a moment, eyes soft as he regards her. “I should think it impossible not to make such an accommodation.”

“Why thank you Monsieur, I’d hate not to keep my promises… perhaps we can discuss the details Monday?”

“It is getting rather late, isn’t it? I’m sorry to have kept you.”

His eyes trail after her as she exits his office. She closes the door, and he takes the hint. 

Christine and Raoul have already returned to retrieve their son by the time Meg finds her mother. 

“Ah, Miss Giry.” Raoul greets politely. Christine, in turn, embraces her tightly.

“Oh,” Meg mutters in surprise. “Chris I--”

“Thank you for returning him to us,” Christine whispers into her shoulder. They hold each other for a moment, too long a moment for what they were, for what they had been for a long time. 

Gustave seems none the wiser of the situation at hand as he leaves with his parents.

“You aren’t a little girl anymore, Margarite, whatever you imagine she’ll think of you, it can’t be.” Her mother utters, bitterly but… but not towards her daughter, no… towards someone else,  _ something  _ else. “You have to be careful, with your reputation, with your  _ heart _ , they are all a woman has, and to waste such things on people who are  _ undeserving _ …”

“How do you tell when someone deserves you,  _ mother _ ?” Meg asks sadly. 

“They’ll give you as much as you give them. It might not be the same things, it might not be love, but it will be  _ equal _ .”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as you all are surely aware, the world kind of imploded recently and it's a little hard to churn out another chapter when there are protests to be had and unemployment to be filed for, but i have indeed not abandoned this beauty. i will continue to update as i write more, and will always be grateful to those of you who comment during those absences


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